Divine Intervention
by comptine
Summary: AU. Francis was looking for a sign, something that would show him that there was some light at the end of the miserable tunnel that was his life. An Englishman claiming he was an angel was not what he was expecting. FrUK
1. Chapter 1

All inspiration for this goes to the wonderful drama '_Six Feet Under' _and it's writer Alan Ball.

Mentions of suicide, rather offensive language and smut. There's a reason for an 'M' rating.

* * *

_Divine Intervention_

**Chapter 1**

So this was it.

The dark waters shined in the city lights, inviting Francis to take the dive. Some small part of him was still demanding that he get off the railing and go fix his problems using the usual bottle of wine and 8-bit porn, but he was really done with common sense and pixel breasts at the moment. It was time to face the fact that his life, despite friends, family and a steady job, was going nowhere. Hell, he hadn't held a steady partner for over five years and he was nominated "Most Likely to Become a Playboy" in high school.

He shifted, his left dress shoe slipping slightly. Despite his conviction, his hand gripped the metal support tighter and he swallowed. The voice of reason was already quickly escaping its bounds, ringing loudly in his mind. Moving a little closer to the edge, he squeezed his eyes shut, imagining that there was a pile of soft clouds and not a raging river below him. As he leaned forward, he wondered distantly if everyone else had such confused thoughts before they finished the job.

"I wouldn't do that." A voice told him, rather uninterestedly. Looking round, Francis didn't move away from the edge, not planning on being talked down. For a moment, he thought he had imagined the voice but the person spoke again, this time in a much more angry tone, "Now. Step down from the ledge." He squinted, turning around completely and finally realized that someone was standing right behind him.

The small blond tugged at he lapel of his fitted black suit, looking innocent as if to say 'What? I didn't say anything, I just happen to be standing here'. For some reason he appeared fuzzy at the edges, as though he really wasn't there, though his bright eyes were clear as day, a dark forest-green flecked with gold. Nice eyes, Francis thought vaguely, he had always preferred green-eyed paramours.

"Oh yeah?" Francis asked, making sure to lean away from the man in case he tried to be the hero and would try to grab his legs or something, "Why not?"

Those emerald eyes bore into him, making his mocking smile falter. "Because," He said, fingers now adjusting his cuffs, "It will mean my visit here would've been a waste and I'll spend the next year doing paperwork, which isn't how I want to spend my afterlife."

The man's strange words were almost enough for Francis to step back off the railing and simply ask the man what in the world he was talking about. However, considering this man could very well be a figment of his imagination, he clung to the metal support. "I don't know what you're talking about," the Frenchman spat, "You are talking crazy."

"This coming from the man about to jump off a bridge?" Carefully, the man walked over, leaning against the railing, bending his shoulder over rail, closing his eyes. A breeze floated up from the ravine, ruffling the sandy blond hair and the bottom of Francis' shirt. The Frenchman shivered, taking his free arm and hugging himself. "Will you get off now?" the man asked again, not opening his eyes.

"No!"

"Well bloody hell!" the large eyebrows frowned, looking rather caterpillar-ish, "Jump already for Christ's sake! I have a debt I need to pay and you are holding me up!"

Francis almost stepped off at that moment but his curiosity was getting the better of him, forcing him to hold on long enough to find out why the man seemed to be talking in such a ridiculous fashion. "What are you talking about? Afterlife? A debt because of me? I've never even met you!"

"You make a good point, frog, we haven't met." The main opened a single eye, offering a hand, "Arthur Kirkland, your appointed guide from the afterlife, come to turn your life around. At least, that's what I'm told to say when I meet you. I'd much rather say, 'Hello there! You're about the kill yourself and I'm here on a mission from God to stop you from jumping because it's a fucking stupid idea.' Doesn't that just sound much more… convincing than the 'appointed guide' bullshit?" That smirk was comforting and really shouldn't have been.

Francis' knees bent slightly. "What?" He ignored the proffered hand, gazing at it warily. Mark it up to his luck to get the one crazed man in the entire city talking to him at his most vulnerable period, "You're talking crazy."

"What isn't there to understand?" Arthur hoisted himself onto the railing, standing up straight, not even wobbling on the metal. Before Francis could even reach out a hand to stop him, Arthur took a single step forward. "I mean it's simple enough." The Englishman took another step, shoving his hands in his pocket. "I'm here to stop you from killing yourself because God thinks you don't deserve to die." Turning on his heel, standing on nothing air, Arthur grinned at Francis. "Simple."

Rubbing his eyes, wondering if he had smoked something was just unaware of it, Francis kept his hands over his face, slowly lowering himself back onto the pavement. "_Sacré bleu…_" He breathed, "You didn't fall. How?!"

"When you're on a mission from God, death really is more of an afterthought than anything." Trying to control his breath, Francis look around. Arthur was no longer hanging in the air, but sitting on the railing, leaning against the metal support. "What're you looking at you bastard?" He snapped, sliding onto his the street, glaring down at the Frenchman.

Francis got to his feet, not appreciated being looked down upon by such an outré man. "Francis." He said, folding his arms over his chest, "Francis Bonnefoy. Not frog. Not bastard. Francis." It felt nice to finally release some of the anger and frustration that had building in his heart for over two years.

Smirking, Arthur clapped sarcastically. "Took you long enough." He said, reaching up and fixing his suit's lapel again. "Now, let's get a move on. I'm not expecting to fix your life standing around here." Francis watched Arthur begin walking away towards his home.

It took him a moment to process the fact that the man knew where he lived. "Wait!" He yelled, chasing after the Brit and grabbing his shoulder, "What the hell?! I don't remember inviting you anywhere. And who are you to waltz in and say you want to fix _mon vie? C'est une insulte! Tu es incroyablement grossier!_" He dissolved into French; his mother tongue feelings unfamiliar on his lips as he realized that he hadn't spoken so much French in over two years.

"I don't speak French." Arthur said, still walking, fixing Francis with a cool stare over his shoulder. "Care to translate for the poor Englishman?"

Letting go of the man's shoulder, Francis took three steps, quickly overtaking Arthur. Walking backwards, he folded his arms against his chest, hunched against the cold. "I said you are incredibly rude. You think you can just fix my life by showing up? Like some glorified social worker? _Idiot._"

"Just because you say it in a different accent doesn't mean I can't understand the word 'idiot'," Arthur said, stopping at the crosswalk, watching a car roll by before crossing, still heading straight for Francis' street. "And anyway, I'll explain everything tomorrow, saving people's lives is rather tiring, would you agree?" The smirk that had been so comforting was now downright infuriating.

Francis just sighed. "I wouldn't know. I don't save people's lives." Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Arthur stare around, looking at the skyline to their left. Taking a deep breath, Francis began to run towards his home, skidding around the corner, almost smashing into his front door as he fumbled with his keys, forcing them into his lock and slipping inside, quickly closing the door and locking it. He laughed bitterly, sliding down the door and sighing in relief.

His small townhouse was very pleasant, most likely due to the fact that he had a very close friend with an Ikea employee and often got discounts. The warm colours and wooden furniture were unfortunately dark and ominous in the darkness. Giving himself a minute to recover from the last five minutes, Francis decided that it had all been an apparition. A very real, very solid vision, but utterly non-real. Probably made up by his mind in a last ditch effort of self-preservation.

Slowly pulling himself to his feet, he threw his keys and wallet (which he had only brought so they could identify his body) onto the small side table before beginning to feel his way down the front hallway. A staircase climbed up to his left while his kitchen opened to his right. Thinking it would be good to stay off the wine for a few days, he started to climb his stairs, finding his feet dragging and unable to stop yawning.

Once in his room, Francis glanced outside, just to see if Arthur had appeared again and was standing outside his door, but the street was empty. Chuckling at himself for being so paranoid, he kicked his shoes off and fell onto his bed fully-clothed, falling asleep almost instantly.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Apparently near-death situations on bridges = FrUK


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Francis awoke the next morning and was surprised to find that the mysterious man hadn't ransacked his house. Though looking back on it as he slipped out of bed, stretching and yawning, the man was probably just some hallucination brought on by his mind trying to talk him down. He didn't even look real. Glad that he had the day to recover from last night's event, he rolled out of bed, pulling off his dirty, slightly crusty shirt and rummaged in his closet and putting on a comfy sweatshirt. He felt lighter, as if a great weight on his shoulder had lifted, as if the shade-Brit had managed to calm him, as if by magic. Okay, maybe not magic.

Sighing, wondering why his mind had picked an angry British man instead of a busty Frenchwoman, he headed downstairs, humming lightly, lost in his own little world. Walking into his kitchen, he headed straight for the fridge, opening it and pulling out the orange juice. Behind him, the toast's bell rang through the house and the news reporter on the television informed him that it was going to be very sunny all day. Francis was surprised; it was usually cloudy, or maybe he was just imagining that too.

"Could you shove over please? I want some milk with my tea." The Frenchman did as he was told, more out of politeness than anything. The body that pushed against him was cold and as the gears began to turn in his mind- "Goddamn… you haven't even got any in here! First I have to go out and buy a fucking teapot because you didn't have one and now you tell me you don't have any milk!? You've managed to ruin my morning by just existing. I should've let you jump off, then at least I would've been doing my paperwork with some fucking tea with _milk_ in it."

The orange juice container fell to the ground and spilled its citrus insides onto the linoleum. Francis pressed himself against the counter, pulling a knife off the wall, holding it with a trembling hand. "_Dieu!_ How did you get in my house?!" He demanded, jabbing the knife at the intruder.

"What do you think?" Arthur's head poked out from behind the fridge, "I broke in. The backdoor's lock was bloody easy to pick." He closed the door, yawning slightly and walked past the Frenchman and plucking the charred bread out of the toaster and placing it into his mouth.

Wondering why his brain insisted on playing tricks on him, Francis watched the Brit take a seat at the small island, munching on the toast and drinking tea while watching the television, as if this was a regular occurrence. Taking time to inspect this figment of his imagination, Francis squinted his eyes. He wasn't in the most fashionable of outfits, a ragged black wifebeater and a pair of tight (tight as in he could practically see the Femoral artery pulsing) dark skinny jeans. What happened to the smart, tailored suit?

Thin, slightly scrawny upon first glance, though he could see lean muscles on the bare arms that swelled as he lifted the teacup to his lips. The sandy blond hair was standing up in odd angles, the perfect example of bedhead. Two bushy eyebrows contracted as something on the news displeased him and the green eyes narrowed. Overall, probably his frustrations with the world and its idiotic rules and pressures taking form in an angry British punk.

"Excuse me," The emerald eyes turned on him, "Why are you wielding a knife at me?"

Looking down, the Frenchman realized that he still had the cleaver clutched in his hand. "Oh…_désolé_." He put the knife down. "And… why are you here?"

Swallowing, Arthur took another bite of toast. " 'm here 'cause you need to fix your sorry life." As he spoke, bits of bread flew from his mouth, making Francis cringe away. As he took a step back, his foot found the puddle of orange juice and he sighed, reaching down and picking up the now-empty container, throwing it moodily into the recycling bin. He turned back to the tile, wondering how much papertowel he was going to need, and froze, eyes widening.

"Where'd the mess go?" He asked, staring at the clean floor, then at Arthur. "Did you…?"

"No." the Briton finished the last bit of toast, "I was just sittin' here watching the telly, after all, I'm just a figment of your imagination." He gave Francis a pointed stare.

Francis folded his arm, leaning against the fridge. The 'mind-reading' wasn't scary; one's mind should be able to read itself. "If you're a figment of my imagination, you should be able to leave when I think about you leaving." He closed his eyes for effect, "There's no place like a home without a British man. There's no place like a home without a British man. There's no place like a home without a British man." It was a stupid mantra, but this was his mind, he had control.

"Well you better throw those ruby slippers out because I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere." He opened his eyes. Arthur was standing, still frowning, "Now, since you have no food here but half-stale bread and fucking _cheese_ can we go get some real breakfast?"

Shaking his head, Francis walked out of the kitchen. He was feeling quite hungry and Arthur's need for food was obviously just his stomach using this apparition as a voice. "Fine. We can go down to _Lizzie's_."

The trip there was quick; Francis had walked the path many times. _Lizzie's_ was like a second home for him, he knew all the staff personally and when he wasn't at work or sulking at home, he was complaining to the owner while she poured him his third cup of coffee. Arthur brooded behind him, tugging on a white dress shirt he had seemingly pulled out of nowhere, buttoning it up and grumbling to himself.

A bell rang overhead as Francis stepped inside - he held the door open for Arthur, even though no one else could see him, that didn't mean he couldn't be polite to his mind. The restaurant was empty save for an old man sitting at the counter, watching the TV, ranting about how he was a commander back in the war. Everyone knew that he had always worked on a farm, but no one wanted to rain on his parade. The Frenchman took a seat at his usual booth, where he had a view of the harbour, Arthur taking the seat across from him.

"Francis!" Looking round, he spotted the diner's owner pop her head around the corner of the kitchen. Elizaveta was as smiley and bubbly as ever and Francis felt his gut twitch with guilt when he realized that he hadn't said goodbye to her. "You're here!" She hurried over towards them, her long toffee hair held back by a green kerchief, wiping her hands on the front of her apron, managing to avoid getting any mess on her dress. "Oh," She stopped, looking at Arthur, "Hello there! You must be one of Francis' friends, my name's Elizaveta." She held out a hand.

"Y-You can see him?" Francis said, watching Arthur take the hand and press his lips to it, grinning wickedly at the Frenchman while Elizaveta pulled her hand back, giggling.

"Of course," She leaned close to Francis, whispering, "He's cute! Where'd you find him?" And, before Francis could answer, she sauntered off, humming to herself and casting glances over her shoulder at the pair.

Arthur sighed, propping his chin on his hand. "Lovely girl." Seeing Francis dumbfounded face, he continued, "What? I wasn't going to tell you I wasn't a figment of your imagination. I am clearly real."

Francis scowled at him, but couldn't pursue the subject as Elizaveta returned, pouring him a cup of coffee, Arthur ordered tea, eggs and sausages, like the British man he was while Francis just asked for some of Elizaveta's fresh baked bread and some butter. While Arthur stared at the pontificating old man, the Frenchman glowered at him, trying to figure out whether he was just imagining so hard that the apparition had become real or if Arthur was _actually_ a person and he had just made-up Arthur walking on air.

By the time Elizaveta returned with their breakfast, Francis realized that he had been staring at the man for ten whole minutes. Grimacing as Arthur dug into the eggs with what he thought was too much gusto, Francis carefully spread butter over his toast, taking a contemplative bite.

"How are the eggs?" He asked, finishing his first piece of toast, watching Arthur finished the eggs before starting on the meat. The Brit's face seemed caught in a perpetual frown.

"Utterly unsatisfactory." Arthur said, munching on the sausages, "The food in heaven is much better."

"I'm _so_ sorry." Francis said, rolling his eyes, remembering why he thought Arthur was his imagination in the first place. "But this is the best I can do."

Ignoring the jib, the Brit just carefully ate his way through the rest of his meal. "Well, that's what I'm here for," Arthur said, swallowing his last bite and sighing, setting down his fork, "To fix your best. You have five regrets. It's my job to help you work through them."

"Why me?"

Arthur shrugged, taking a long sip of his tea. "Dunno. Someone in the higher-ups must like you."

Sitting back in his seat, Francis looked back out at the harbour, swirling the dregs of his coffee around the bottom of his cup. "I can't think of anything." He said finally, looking at Arthur's green, eyes, wondering why he felt slightly guilty, as if he had disappointed the Brit.

"Really? There's nothing you regret?" Arthur asked, raiding an eyebrow.

Elizaveta wandered over, smiling at them refilling their drinks, fondly squeezing Francis' shoulder, obviously under the impression that he was on some kind of date, not getting told his life was lame by a snarky Englishman. "Not that I can think of."

"Well there's got to be something or I wouldn't be goddamn-well here." Arthur said, slamming his mug onto the table.

Jumping slightly at the sudden noise, Francis tried to change the subject. "You just took His name in vain! You're an angel, don't you have rules about that?"

Arthur chuckled. "Does it look like I really care?" He leaned forward, staring Francis straight in the eye, "God is a fucking cocksucker, cunt, whore, bastard, pussy-licking, son-of-a-bitch." Francis felt his jaw open slightly as Arthur pulled back, smirking at him. "There, happy?"

"You swear, think you're an angel and believe you were sent to help fix my life." Shaking his head, he picked up his coffee, taking a steadying drink, "You really are insane."

"At least I wasn't the one standing on the railing, ready to toss themselves. Now listen here," snatching a napkin from it's holder, he pulled a pen that was definitely not there before from behind his ear, "We're going to write the regrets down. So, name something."

"I already told you, I can't think of any."

"I wasn't sent here to argue with you."

"Fine. I regret not jumping off the bridge."

"That doesn't count."

"I thought you weren't sent here to argue."

"Look." Arthur threw the pen down on the table, leaning back, running his hands over his face. "You're the only thing keeping me here, the only thing keeping me from the Pearly Gates." Sighing heavily, he dropped his hands back to the table, his green eyes slightly glassy, (or maybe it was just the light) "I just want move on."

Francis looked away from the Brit, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, okay. I'll play along." He saw Arthur grin out of the corner of his eye, "So are there any limits, or rules or something?"

"Of course." Arthur picked up the pen, letting it twirl in his fingers, "You can't do anything that could harm another person or yourself."

"That's it?" Francis was honestly surprised. This man's empty promises sounded rather nice if they weren't complete lies. "What about money?"

"We'll face that problem when it arises." Arthur put the pen to the napkin, looking at Francis expectantly.

Deciding to play the Englishman's little game, Francis put some seriously thought into his regrets. It was almost like figuring out the reasons why he wanted to jump off the bridge presented to him in a nice neat form. "I want to paint a picture of the countryside where I grew up."

"Tch."

Francis' mug stopped halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"I was expecting something like 'I want a million dollars' or 'I want to live forever'." Arthur said, slowly writing, swearing every time to napkin ripped on the tip of his pen.

"Those aren't regrets." Francis countered.

Finishing the word and stabbing the period, Arthur looked at Francis, clearly unamused. "You don't think people think on their deathbeds, 'Damn, I wish I could've lived forever'? Or that they lose their jobs and the thought of 'If only I had a billion dollars right now…' doesn't go through their head? Don't be naïve Francis. We are foolish, selfish, sad creatures."

Francis couldn't argue with the man. It was too true. Arthur seemed so young, but the words coming out of his mouth betrayed a man who had seen the world at it's worse. Grabbing his mug, Francis finished the last of his coffee. The Brit just stared out the window, his eyes distant as he tapped his biro nervously against the table.

"I've always wanted to hear Ave Maria live. With a full orchestra and everything." Francis spoke, setting his mug down.

It took the Brit a moment before he started to write again, "Ave… Maria…"

Not wanting to go back to that awkward silence of before, Francis continued to talk. "I want to ride a horse."

Watching Arthur bit his lip, as if resisting the urge to make a comment, Francis watching him carefully. "You've never?" He asked finally, grinning slightly.

"No. My mother hated animals. And I've always admired the waitress here, but I've never asked her out." Looking around, Francis watched Elizaveta clean up a few dishes, smiling kindly at her customers, wishing them all to have a wonderful day. She really did suit the small-diner owner part almost perfectly.

"Ask… waitress… out… Okay, one more."

Francis had been so concerned with Elizaveta that his fifth and final regret slipped out before he could stop himself. "I… I want to fall in love." He said, clutching the mug tightly, noticing a moment too late what he had said. Swallowing, he looked to Arthur, who was shaking his head.

"This isn't a goddamn Kate Winslet movie, name something serious." Francis felt his face fall and his cheeks blush in embarrassment. He closed his eyes, tilting his head down in shame. Here was a madman telling him he was being an idiot and the sad thing was that it was completely true. "Oh…" He heard Arthur breath. The pen started it's annoyed tapping.

"It's stupid," Francis said, keeping his gaze averted, studying the table, "Just... forget it, cross it off the list."

"No... if it's a regret I can't leave until it's fulfilled." Watching the pen slide across the napkin in a scrawled fashion, Francis finally managed to gather the strength to raise his head. Arthur was staring at the list. "Not a bad list. Should be pretty easy. Do you want to do these in order?"

"Doesn't matter to me. I still think you're totally insane." Francis said, trying to regain some of his nonchalantness he had held this morning. He wished desperately that Elizaveta would come over and give him an excuse to look at something else besides Arthur.

"Well, we'll see about that." Slipping the napkin into his pocket with some difficulty, Arthur got to his feet, finishing the last of his tea in one long chug, "Be ready to leave tomorrow morning at eight o'clock." Stuffing one hand into his pocket, the other running through his hair, the Brit started towards the door.

"Hey wait! Where are you going?" But Arthur gave no response. He stepped outside, glancing up to the sky frowning. After a minute of glaring at the sky, rain suddenly began to pour down and Francis remembered vaguely about the weatherman telling him it was going to be very sunny.

Also getting to his feet, Francis pulled out his wallet, fishing out a few bills and throwing them onto the table. Elizaveta walked by, picking up the plates. "An odd guy?" She asked, placing a hand on her hip, watching the grinning Brit cross the road and disappear around a corner.

"You have no idea."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Um, thank you all for the wonderful reception this story has gotten… I wasn't expecting this many people to like it~


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter was not supposed to be so… dark.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

There was a sharp blare from outside Francis' window and he shot up, looking around. His clock read 6:59 and he blinked at it and it started beeping, flicking to 7:00. Scowling, that extra minute of sleep was vital to his good mood that day and here it was ruined because some idiot outside probably bumped his car, activating the alarm.

Sliding out of bed, he stretched lazily, shuffling towards the bathroom and beginning his daily routine. Once he was showered and dressed in his casual business wear, he stomped down the stairs into his kitchen and almost danced when he found Arthur nowhere to be seen. The one minute of sleep made up by the fact that the Brit was missing, Francis' day went about as normal and just as he was about to leave for work, he snatched up his small messenger bag and hurried out the front door.

The day was sunny again and Francis shielded his eyes from the sun, turning around and locking the door. As he stepped down his front walkway, eyes squinted against the sun; he hoped that his car had gas in it. He hasn't been paying attention to it's fuel for the past few days.

"I said eight o'clock you lazy bastard."

He stopped dead. There, parked right outside his house in a very old-style black convertible, green eyes peaking over a pair of aviators, was Arthur. A small black and red tartan scarf was tucked under his neck, slightly hidden by the high collared grey jacket. And there, in all its glory, was the smirk.

"A-Arthur?!" Francis managed to say, stepping towards the car but not touching it.

Leaning over, the Brit grabbed the door handle of the passenger's side, opening it. "Get in." He said, pulling back and turning the keys. The car purred into life, puttering quietly. Francis could hear the radio singing to itself but didn't really care, "We're going to the countryside."

Francis shook his head. He was not about to abducted by some crazy British man. "But I have to go to work." Gesturing down the road, he started walking away from Arthur, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible.

"I called ahead and informed them that you're indisposed until further notice." Arthur was standing in the car, hanging on the windshield and waving a small napkin at him, still grinning at the Frenchman, "You have some previous business you had to deal with."

"I need that money!"

Laughing, Arthur slid back down into the driver's seat. "Don't worry, they're paying you anyway." He patted the passenger's side, "Now move you great arse, I want to get there before World War III starts."

A cautious step towards the car, but the Frenchman was still keen on keeping his distance. "H-how!?" He demanded, nervously playing with the strap of his bag, one couldn't really blame him for his hesitation, it wasn't every day they met someone not only claiming to be an angel but proving in small ways that he was one.

"I'm an angel," Arthur's uncanny ability to read minds once again catching Francis off-guard, "We can do these things. Now get in the bloody car, we haven't got all day." The engine revved for effect and a pale finger pushed the sunglasses down so that the green eyes could watch Francis.

Resigning himself, Francis climbed into the passenger's seat, throwing his bag into the back. As Arthur pulls out onto the road, the Frenchman swallows, the Brit's speed and otherworldly handling of the vehicle making him uneasy. "What's in the basket?" He asked, noticing the small wicker hamper.

Arthur made a sharp turn right, shouting a few choice words at pedestrians would dared to even consider walking in front of his collector's MG. "Paints and lunch." He said simply, brows furrowed. "And I'm staying at your house tonight. God forbid I have to seduce another lonely woman so I can sleep with a roof over my head." Francis had a hard time believing that the Englishman had the ability to even flirt, no less _seduce_.

"I'm surprised you even have morals." He muttered quietly, holding onto the side of the car for dear life, his nails picking up small flakes of the black paint.

"I'm surprised you are mocking the person who's driving you to the countryside so that you can paint a picture, taking time out of his _afterlife_ to deal with your stupid problems."

Francis found that he had no rebuttal and instead huffed slightly, looking out the passing window. Streets and high-rises soon gave way to rolling hills and blue sky that stretched into the horizon, dipping out of site. It took Francis a moment realize which road they were driving and he felt his heart drop as they sped by two small white crosses stuck in a ditch.

The music on the radio suddenly hit Francis full-on, wrapping around him in a warm blanket of strong piano chords and a melody that anyone can comprehend. They were already deep into the song and Francis watches his reflection mouth the words, as he remembered why he never drove this road.

and when the broken hearted people living in the world agree

_It had been dark that night. Francis remembers only the sound of Antonio's laughter, the shrill voice of Gilbert crowing happily and his own smile drunk and calm. That and the grind of metal on metal when he takes his eyes off the road to look at his two friends and the sigh of contentment he utters before there is a shout, the lack of tires gritting against the road and the silence that follows._

there will be an answer, let it be.

_The hospital room is white and when Francis opens his eyes he feels as though he has gone to heaven. When he finds that his head is pounding he realizes that he is far from the clouds. The doctors tell him it's a miracle that he survived and when he emerges from the drug-induced haze for a short while he asks after his two friends. No doctor tells him, no nurse and no psychologist. Instead, Gilbert's brother and Antonio's fiancé tell him. It does not ease the pain._

_They don't let him leave the hospital, but Ludwig and Lovino visit him almost every other day. For two weeks, there are no words exchanged between them. Neither can think of what to say and Francis does not think his words could ever offer the comfort of their lost ones. When Gilbert's brother's speaks for the first time, it is only to tell Francis that the funeral is in two days. That night the hospital is the farthest thing from heaven._

for though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,

_And though Francis has always loved the sun, it seems to mock him, spilling warm and bright rays onto the dark cemetery. When he is told to take the podium, he wants to talk forever, to name everything Gilbert and Antonio have done, but the priest stops him, shaking his head. He steps down from the platform and can't help but glance at the oak coffin holding a sleeping Gilbert and the golden urn that protects a whisper of Antonio._

_Francis stands alone, merely a lost part of a broken whole and people mutter their condolences. He doesn't hear them, only the blame and anger in their kind and reassuring tones. Francis is forced to let some of the memories he cherished so closely disappear as he rips up his speech and tosses it into the gaping maw of the earth. As he takes the first handful of dirt, tossing gently onto the coffin, onto the written and torn memories, he cries for the first time._

_He realizes that no one is left to comfort him._

there will be an answer. let it be.

_Perhaps the worst moment comes when he hears the others crying. When he sees Lovino clinging to his younger brother, swearing at Francis, at Antonio and at the sky -in a vague hope that someone may be listening to his prayers. The desperation that his voice carries is shown in the blue eyes of Gilbert's brother as silent tears stream down his stoic face. Ludwig says nothing but that almost hurts as much as Lovino's cries. _

_With his two better halves missing, Francis realizes that he cannot go on alone._

let it be, let it be.

Francis breathed in deeply, lifting up his hand and driving the heel into his eye. When he finally mustered the courage to look at Arthur, the Brit is focused on the road - perhaps a little too focused and Francis wondered if angels can understand human emotion, Arthur certainly has shown no signs of understanding or compassion. He heard a quiet sigh from beside him but does not comment on it.

The car puttered to a stop and Francis steps out of it quickly, stretching and hoping that Arthur won't see the way his eyes are a little red around the edges. The angel followed his lead, turning his head to the sides, listening to the cracks with a pleased smirk. "This is where you wanted to go, right?"

In his haste to hide his face, the Frenchman hadn't looked around, and does so. It is midday and the fields are alive with life and colour. He spotted a small enclosure in the distance where two horses idly grazed, tails flicking and he couldn't help but remember the days he spent with Antonio and Gilbert trying to tame a wild mustang. There was a reason his mother hated horses. "Yes." Sighing, he turned on his heel, knowing what lay on the other side of the road, "_Dieu_…"

The lilies are in full bloom. White petals flickering in the sunlight as a light breeze floated through the field. Only once Arthur's finger poked into his back did Francis turn away from the flowers, quickly wiping his cheek. "This should be everything you need." He said, passing over a small bag of paints and gesturing towards the canvas set up a few feet behind him. "Have fun okay?"

"How did you know?" Francis said, looking at Arthur curiously, "This… almost no one knows about this field."

Toying with his sunglasses, Arthur turned away. "You know, they have lilies at funeral to represent that the dead have found innocence in their passing on." Picking up the basket, Arthur strode away from the Frenchman, giving his a two-finger salute, his scarf flailing in the wind.

Taking his place at the small stool beside the canvas, he rummaged in the bag, pulling out paints, brushes and a palette. It had been ages since he had painted and he had forgotten how beautiful the brush's fine hairs looked splayed across the blank canvas, dragging colours behind it. Francis had forgotten how calming it was and as he worked he found himself slightly dazed in happiness.

A small voice inside his head told him that Antonio and Gilbert would be pleased that he was getting on with his life. The painting may have taken long than it should have due to the fact that he had to keep wiping his eyes on his sleeves. When he finished, the last stroke seemed to come out of nowhere and he almost drops the brush in surprise.

Sighing, Francis wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, leaving a streak of green. It wasn't a bad painting - he had always possessed a gift for art, certainly no Da Vinci, but a talent. His joints popping and cracking from being stationary for such a long time, the Frenchman got to his feet, rubbing his aching right hand. He glanced around, trying to find Arthur.

Spotting him stretched under a beech tree, a novel over his eyes, his head propped up on his arm, Francis carefully made his way over. Arthur was utterly dead to the world. Even his chest and stopped rising and falling and it was very tempting to poke him with a stick. Slowly lowering himself onto the small blanket, Francis stared out at the rolling hills, his moment of peace ending abruptly as his stomach growled and he realized that he hadn't eaten all day.

His raid of the picnic basket proved mildly successful. There was a small sandwich and a bottle of wine. Opening the wine, he took a long, grateful drink before he started to tug at the sandwich's wrappings. As Arthur snuffled in his sleep, Francis took a cautious bite of the sandwich. "_Merde_," He started cough, forcing the food down taking a swallow of wine, trying to get right of the terrible taste, "That was terrible."

"Oy, if you're going to rip on my cooking, at least don't steal it first." Francis looked down to see Arthur glaring up at him, scowling, "Give that back."

The Frenchman passed the sandwich over. "Gladly." He took another sip of wine, wondering if he was ever going to taste something more horrible.

Beside him, Arthur sat up, taking a contemplative bite of the sandwich, laying one arm on his bent knee, other arm keeping him propped up. He sighed again, putting the food down and looking at Francis. "You were bringing them here when you crashed, right?"

The wine bottle stopped halfway to Francis mouth. "What?" He voice was shaking already. Arthur couldn't know, that was impossible, no one could know.

"Those two guys…" Arthur said, snatched the wine out of Francis' loose hand, putting it to his lips, talking into the bottle, "You were bringing them here to show them the fields, weren't you?" A long drink of wine and a quirked brow.

Francis glared out at the lilies. Bluffing. Arthur was bluffing. "I don't think you should ask." He said coldly, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

"Look, I was watching when it happened so you can either tell me the truth or let me draw my own conclusions."

Resentment in every word, Francis spoke, staring intently at anything but the Englishman. "I was. We grew up here together. I wanted to do something special for them." He sighed, unwilling tears coming to his eyes.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette. As Francis crinkled in his noise in disgust, closing his eyes, he opened them to find the smoke lit. Figuring that Francis was just fast with a lighter, he watched the embers glow and die in time with Arthur's breathing.

"Why?" Flicking his eyes, he noticed that Arthur was staring right at him, his green eyes glinting in the harkening sunset. It took him a moment to remember that they were green and not gold.

"Antonio had just asked Lovino to marry him," Francis explained, doing his best to control his memories, to not let them win, "and Gilbert has just been accepted into the Berlin Philharmonic. This was the last time we were going to be together and I…" He trailed off, trying not to remember the silver-haired man holding his violin - the only thing he loved more than himself.

Arthur got to his feet suddenly. Taking one last long drag of the smoke, he flicked it to the ground, crushing it underneath his boot. "I get it, don't worry," He started packing up the picnic, rummaging for the keys in his pocket, "It's getting dark, let's go."

The ride trip was silent. Not out of awkwardness, or a lack of something to say, but a silent agreement that nothing needed to be said. Francis kept the painting on his lap, making sure not to spill any wine on it as he finished the bottle. The same parking spot Arthur had in the morning was still empty and he pulled into it with practiced ease, yawning widely as he cut the car's engine. They stumbled up the front walkway, Francis keying in the code to his door, pushing it open and sighing tiredly. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

"Hey, where am I going to sleep?" Arthur asked, walking in after Francis, closing the door and glancing around.

Walking down the hallway, Francis waved a weary hand in the direction of the living room, beginning to climb the stairs to his bedroom. "The couch is right over there." He called down, "Goodnight." He reached his room, kicked off his shoes and fell onto his bed, completely exhausted. As he drifted off to sleep, he was almost sure that he heard the quiet voice of a violin.

* * *

**Author's Note**

It was only while writing this chapter that I figured out why Francis wanted to kill himself. I had planned on leave it ambiguous but his backstory somehow wormed its way into the story and I couldn't let it pass. I've also never cried while writing before, but today…


	4. Chapter 4

Okayokayokay, no more slightmoe!Francis everyone just calm down XD And surprisingly long chapter for… no reason but Trio backstory.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Francis sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Light streamed in through his blinds and the thought of being late for work on flit through his head for only a moment. Again, he felt light and his chest seemed to breath easy for the first time in a year.

Something moved across the bottom of his door. Shifting in his bed, he peered into the room across from his own. Arthur was standing beside a window, shirtless for no apparent reason, the dawn sunlight floating around him. His lips were moving soundlessly and his fingers were gently caressing the long-dead stalk of Francis' lily - something he had bought as a symbol of remembrance and let die within a week of purchase.

Snorting, Francis threw the covers off his bed, intending to ask the man why he was molesting his flower. And then, he stopped, clutching the doorway to the living room. Soft light slipped from between the delicately brushing fingers, enveloping the lily. Slowly, vibrant green began to seep from the roots of the plant, moving upwards. Francis would only watch in awe as a white bud bloomed at the end of the stem, opening it's tiny petals to the sun.

The light left Arthur's hands and the Brit sighed happily, giving the flower a fond smile. Turning, his green eyes fell upon the Frenchman and his blissful countenance fell, giving way to a look of pure rage. "You were watching?" He ground out, folding his arms.

"You really are an angel." Francis said, taking a careful step into the side room, still staring at the flower. "You saved my lily…"

Arthur nodded and pushed by Francis. "I did. I don't like seeing plants suffer due to their owner's idiocy."

When the Frenchman turned to retort, the words were lost of his tongue as Arthur's back was cast into ragged shadows. The skin was rough and chaos of red lines and pearly white skin that stretched thin and tight over bones. "W-What happened to your back?" He asked. It was amazing Arthur was still alive after getting so badly wounded. If you could consider his current situation 'alive.'

Twisting around, making the scars blend and meld into each around, Arthur looked over his shoulder, glaring at Francis. "None of your business." He said, starting down the stairs, quickly leaving the Frenchman.

Not dropping it, feeling some of his old spirit returning, Francis chased after him. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?" He joked, watching Arthur disappear into the kitchen.

"Hardly." As Francis stepped into the kitchen, Arthur was already fully dressed; tight pants ending in tanned boots, a faux-military jacket and dark green tartan scarf with slender lines of bright colours nestled in the thistle green. "More like I didn't even wake up on the goddamn thing. Which would be your fault." The angel bent backward, cracking his back and moaning with pleasure before opening the fridge, pulling out the orange juice.

"Oh _désolé_," Francis said, rolling his eyes, "Next time you can sleep with me, _oui?_ Though that may be breaking first date rules." Grinning at the blush on the pale cheeks, the Frenchman sidled up beside the Brit, pulling down two glasses and taking the carton of juice out of Arthur's hand, pouring two cups.

Without a thank-you, Arthur picked up the glass, downing the drink while Francis took his time, savouring the taste, humming. "We're going riding today." The Brit said, tossing the glass into the sink which, by a miracle of God, did not shatter. "You better be ready to go in five minutes."

Nodding, Francis winked at Arthur, who quickly left, leaving the Frenchman to finish his juice and begin getting ready for the day. Glancing outside at the cool, slightly rainy day, he pulled out a black sweater, enjoy the cosy warmth before slipping on dark slacks and - upon consideration of Arthur's plans for the day - leather boots. Heading back downstairs, he was unsurprised to find the Brit sitting in his convertible, blaring music and ignoring the scandalized looks he was getting. At least he wasn't smoking.

"You're in a rather chipper mood." He commented as Francis practically bounded to the car, smiling. "It's… unsettling to say the least."

Francis just laughed, opening the car door and sliding inside. "I don't know… I just feel so… _libre_."

The car purred into life and Arthur shook his head at the Frenchman's bright smile, pulling away and speeding out of the small city. Looking at the passing countryside, Francis couldn't help but hum along to the music on the Brit's radio, not even a fan but just wanting to sing along to such warm and happy songs. The roadster turned suddenly and Francis looked forward, seeing a sprawling stable ahead. Horses littered the nearby fields and Francis stared at them, grinning even wider. There was something... childish about the way his nose pressed against the glass, fogging the window.

Stopping the car outside of a large ranchhouse, Arthur stepped out, ordering Francis to stay put while he approached a pair of men that were sitting on the outside porch, bickering at each other. The younger one had numerous cats flitting around his shoulders and feet while the other seemed to be wearing a heavy turban of sorts, eyes hooded.

Deciding that as long as he was near the car he was technically 'staying put' Francis got out of the car, stretching and wandering over to an enclosure where two horses were huddled together near the fence. One was black while the other was a light, almost-white, grey, both regarding him warily, the white one's head sitting on the back of the black one. Taking his time, he carefully approached the beasts, holding out his hand and clicking at them, muttering quiet assurances. The white snort brushed against his palm and the Frenchman laughed as the lips chomped uselessly at his hand, searching for a treat. He smiled, a memory tugging at his mind of a warm field and a hazy summer-

"What part of 'don't fucking move' did you not understand?" Arthur was at his side, arms over his chest and boot tapping impatiently against the ground. Before Francis could answer, Arthur just shook his head, "I don't even want to know, and these are our horses." He said.

The smaller brunette was making his way across the field from the ranch house -brigade of cats in tow- patting the horses as he eased bridles onto their heads, leading them back to a large stable. Arthur jumped the fence with ease, following after the man, while Francis sighed, heaving himself over with some difficulty, wondering vaguely when he had gotten so out-of-shape.

Inside, the stable was warm and slightly stuffy, like a mother's kitchen but with the small smell of fresh hay and horses instead of baking. Francis hugged himself slightly, the sheer number of stalls unnerving him slightly, the horses staring at him, some neighing at him most just staring interestedly at the newcomers.

Heracles, or the young man, was very amiable, explaining that he owned this farm with his uncle. The Brit ignored him, instead focusing all his attention on cinching the saddle onto the black horse, running his hands over the dark withers as one would when examining a prized car. Meanwhile, Francis listened intently, finding the quiet and reserved man very interesting and more than once he allowed their hands to brush as Heracles helped saddle the white horse.

"_Merci~_" Francis called as Heracles left, wishing them a pleasant ride. Grinning, he looked at Arthur, catching the end of the Brit's eyeroll, "Jealous?" He chided lightly.

"Hardly." Grabbing the saddle, Arthur pulled himself onto the black horse, wheeling it around and glaring down at Francis. "Can we go?"

The Frenchman stared at the horse, then back at Arthur's unimpressed face, then back at the horse. Big, expectant hazel eyes turned to stare at him and the horse shifted slightly. "Uh…" Francis frowned, grabbing the saddle but not pulling himself on, "How does this work?"

"Just get on the bloody horse," Arthur said unhelpfully. "I'll help you with the rest."

Francis didn't move. "Are you purposely just angry all the time?"

"Only when I'm stuck with people like you." Arthur bit back.

"Then I am flattered." Francis muttered. He tried pulling himself onto the horse but only managing to get his stomach onto the leather before sliding back to the ground, almost tripping. Growling, Arthur got off his own steed, walking over to the Frenchman, grabbing his hips.

Francis grinned; Arthur scowled.

With the added help from Arthur, he managed to mount the horse. Taking the reins, the Frenchman tested them, lightly pulling his horse's head to the left and delighting in the way it followed his guide. "So… can people see you?" He asked, feeling very proud and noble when mounted on the horse.

Arthur clambered onto his own horse, gently urging it into a walk, heading towards the backdoor which led to a dark and slightly foreboding storm front hanging above the green fields. "They can, but no one will remember me or recognize me unless they were very close." Carefully, Francis tapped his heels against the flanks of his horse and followed after Arthur, "I had few close friends when I was alive so I was almost the perfect candidate for you. No running the chance of seeing someone I was close to."

"You mean, no one remembers you?" Francis said, frowning at Arthur, the angel becoming even more of a conundrum. "How terrible."  
The angel was silent, head turned to look out into the west where the sun could be seen, glowing behind the dark clouds. "They remember the idea of me. If you were to ask if the stable hand who you went riding with, they would be able to tell you that I was a male, maybe even hair colour or eyes if they were really paying attention, but besides that, they can't remember anything." Arthur said, urging his horse into a steady canter, leaving Francis behind.

As Francis watched the dark horse jog away, it's rider's back straight and dignified, he sat back on his own saddle, looking down at the mane, patting it carefully. Francis sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head, the memory Arthur had interrupted coming back to his mind.  
Jabbing his heels into the horse, he shouted, some pent of emotion released as the horse burst into a run, chasing after Arthur. The jostling of the uneven ride, the hooves moving under him and the near-flying feeling were all-too familiar.

_-  
_

_Francis remembered he wants to run._

Francis wanders alone along the road that leads to the only town for miles. He plans on getting a ride back to Paris and away from this horrid backwater countryside his mother has forced him to live in. Hate is nothing like the feelings of loathing he has for his mother for taking him from his city. So his father had left, did that really mean he had to move? The man was hardly home ever anyway.

Moodily kicking a rock into a bush, he jumps when it yelps, cursing in Spanish.

"_Bonjour?_" He calls out, hoping dearly he isn't about to be mugged by men in matador outfits and bulls, "Is someone there?" Leaning closer to the underbrush, he cries out in surprise as a hand reaches out and pulls him forward. Before he can right himself, another clamps around his mouth, muffling his screams.

"I told you to stay quiet Antonio!" The hand's owner says, his crimson eyes glaring at the cowering boy, who is nursing a growing lump on his head, "You're going to scare it away!"

Francis manages to pry the hand off and scramble away, looking around wildly. "_Merde!_" He shouts, in frustration and surprise again. His two attackers are making shushing gesture, frantically trying to get the Frenchman to calm down. Chest heaving, Francis manages to whisper, "Who are you!?"

The silvered-hair youth speaks first and though his voice is low and careful, it still carries a boastful and arrogant tone. "Gilbert Beilschmidt the First! And I'm Prussian, _not_ German." He raises himself to his knees, placing his fists on his hips, "_You_ can call me 'Your Awesomeness.'"

"Can't I just call you Gilbert?" Francis asks.

The Germa- Prussian seems to deflate. "I guess… But you won't be allowed in our Secret Club if you call me Gilbert!" He says matter-of-factly. Obviously 'Your Awesomeness' was used to making rules. but Francis didn't car, his blue eyes going wide. The absolute magic words to convince any young boy to do anything. _Secret Club._ Just what he wanted. Friends that he wouldn't have to share with anyone.

"I don't call you Your Awesomeness…" The tanned boy pipes up from Gilbert's side, his head quirked in confusion, "But aren't I in your club?" His accent is light and reminds Francis of an unripe tomato, green and not quite ready to be used.

"You idiot!" Gilbert hisses, knocking his fist on the top of brown hair, making the Spaniard mewl in pain, clutching his head, "He didn't need to know that!"

Staring at the two, wondering if the bulls would've been better. "What were you doing in the bush anyway?" Francis asks, his blue eyes travelling over the muddy and grungy ditch, his face twitching into a grimace. "Surly this isn't your clubhouse."

Gilbert exchanges a wary look with Antonio, a secret shared between crimson and emerald. A blond eyebrow quirks and Francis crosses his arms over his chest in a much too unimpressed-motherly way, waiting to be informed. The white-haired youth gives a curt nod and the Spaniard beckons Francis forward, putting a finger to his lips. Crawling forward on his hands and knee, the Frenchman glances through the brush Antonio has pulled aside.

A brilliant white mare stood in the glade, long mane tangled with twigs and matted with dirt, betraying it's wild ancestry. Francis watches, completely enraptured by the animals' careful but graceful moves, the sweep of it's head bows to drink, the watchful hazel eyes and the hooves, pawing at the ground, waiting to burst into a gallop.

"_Dieu…c'est magnifique…_" Francis mutters, pulling his back to stare wide-eyed at Gilbert, who is nodding confidentially and Antonio who is giving a beaming smile, "What are you planning on doing?"

Reaching into his pocket, the Prussian pulls out two gleaming sugar cubes. "It's the last wild horse in the whole wide world." He says "And we're gonna catch it and ride it."

"That's a stupid idea." Francis wonders if it's himself or his mother speaking, "You could get killed."

Gilbert looks as if he wants to laugh, but holds back, just grinning. "I won't die! I'm too awesome! And anyway, you're just a Frenchy, it's in your DNA to run away." Ignoring Francis' scowl Gilbert puts his hand in the middle of the hiding place, letting hover. "You're still in, right Toni?"

The Spaniard doesn't hesitate to put his hand on Gilbert's, making the ivory skin almost seem translucent, "Of course! We are best friends, we can die together." Francis is taken aback by the morbid words coming out of the smile.

Two gazes fix onto the Frenchman and he fidgets nervously. _Best friends_. There was nothing he wanted more in the world. "I will have to break that stereotype then _oui_?" he placing his hand on top of theirs, smirking.

There is a bond between them now. An understanding that if one falls, two will always bring him back. In their jejune and innocence, they do not quite comprehend what has happened but as they age and face life's challenges, from Antonio's unrest within his family when he reveals that he dates other men, Gilbert's constant stress at raising his younger brother with only a stoic and unloving father and Francis' own problems with his mother, who only sinks deeper into her own madness, they will realize that they are truly there for each other. A quiet laugh, a shoulder to breakdown on and a hand to hold when no one else would.

However, bond or not, Francis still wasn't sure why he was saddled with the job of distracting the horse with the sugar cubes. Taking a deep breath, feeling the sweetness already melting in his sweaty palms, he took a step out of the bush. The white ears twitch in his direction and the hooves stop pawing, shoving into the ground, ready bolt. The beast raises it's head, regarding Francis with such apathy that the Frenchman had to lower his eyes, practically bowing at the steed.

Five minutes pass and the horse seem to figure he wasn't a threat and approached him, huge nose sniffing interestedly at Francis' hand. Giggling slightly as the tongue tickled his palm, licking away the sugar, Francis reached out his other hand, feeling the horse's face, marvelling at the softness of the coat.

"FOR THE TRIO!" Gilbert and Antonio suddenly burst out of the bush, throwing himself onto the horse's back. The horse screamed, rearing and stomping around, trying to dislodge the two boys. "Quick! Franny, get on!"

Antonio's hand was offered on a rare moment that the horse was not flailing around and before Francis knows anything beside his saliva soaked hand in the Spaniard's, he is on the horse and they're speeding through the forest. Gilbert whoops loudly, hands tangled in the mane of the horse, pretending he was steering the wild animal gripping the while the other two cling to each other, trying to stay on.

The horse tears through the forest, Francis sustaining numerous cuts but caring as he whooped loudly, Antonio and Gilbert echoing it. The world is a blurry mess of colours, sounds and Francis feels free for the first time moving away from his city. It is a wonderful feeling and Francis wants it to lost forever. The mare, however, had different plans for the three creatures currently residing on her back.

Five minutes later, Francis is on the ground, his pride almost as bruised as his backside and Antonio lay beside him, equally as broken. Gilbert is hurt the worst, his gut now marked with a brilliant red branch-shaped mark. But they are all laughing, chests heaving for air and grinning at each other. White hairs were still clinging to the Prussian's fingers and when lifted them they glinted in the sun, like a spider's web.

"You said…" Francis says, looking at Gilbert, "For the Trio. What did you mean?"

"It's the name of our club!" Gilbert says, his hand turning into a fist, punching the sky. "We're the Trio!"

There is the grinding on tires on rocks near their feet and they looked up at the sound of a car slamming. "Francis Jean-Louise Bonnefoy!" The Frenchman sits up at the sound of his mother's shrill voice, groaning slightly, "Do you know how much trouble your in!? I just saw you running across the countryside on the back of a wild horse with these two… urchins!" She screeches the last word, seizing her son's hand, and drags him away from his two new best friends.

She drives away and Francis hangs over the backseat, waving at the two boys. For a moment, he fells alone again. But he looks down to see his hand still covered in horsespit and sighs to himself, clutching his hand.

Just as he predicted (hoped, prayed, begged) the next day there was a knock at his front door as when he opened it, Antonio and Gilbert were standing there, both holding fishing rods, Gilbert talking about catching the biggest fish ever while Antonio was trying to tell Francis that he would have it make his own rod, but that he would be glad to help.

_Ignoring his mother's calls, Francis ran._

-

Francis pulled his horse to a stop, laughing wildly, patting his huffing horse's neck. "Thank you…" He whispered, feeling his eyes close as the warm day from his memory left him, leaving a full feeling in his chest. Letting the sound of Gilbert and Antonio fade from his mind, Francis looked around, trying to find Arthur.

There, showing off or something, was the Brit resting beside a fence, his horse side-stepping nervously. Without so much as a twitch, the beast exploded into a gallop, streaking along the railing while Arthur was standing in the stirrups, bent low over the horse. It was amazing, the pure speed and elegance the horse held and it's rider not too bad either. Francis watched, wondering why, when the Englishman slowed he looked angry and disappointed.

"What's wrong?" Francis asked, walking his horse over to Arthur.

"I didn't fly." Arthur answered. Cold. Uncaring. And quiet.

The car ride home is just as awkward as the day before.

* * *

**Author's Note**

In my headcanon for this story:**  
**  
Antonio has a really catholic and big family (see Spanish Inquisition.) When he revealed that he was dating another man, and not a Spanish one at the very least, he was practically ostracized from the family and lived with Lovino and Feliciano until announcing his plans to move to Italy and open a small tomato farm with his fiancé.

Francis' mother slowly fell away from the world, muttering to herself and barely noticing that her son was growing up. Young Francis carefully tended to her and when her rages and blows at ghosts only she could see fell on him, he always found a place to stay down the road at Gilbert or Antonio's. She is American, while Francis' father lived in Francis, but was of Italian descent, whom left for a woman in Greece or Egypt, Francis doesn't really know or care.

Arnold (Germania) is Gilbert and Ludwig's cold and unloving father, who was rarely around because he runs a company that makes planes in their homeland, Germany. Gilbert spent most of his childhood caring for his brother, unwilling to leave him with the numerous nannies his father kept on staff, wanting him to grow up feeling at least some love from his kin. Roderich, their cousin, often came over, also lending a hand in Ludwig's upbringing and also fostering the Prussian's love of music and competitive spirit.

I could just write a story about these three…


	5. Chapter 5

This morning I was woken up by the cleaning lady yelling "tabernac" when she walked into my room and saw me sleeping.

Best morning ever.

* * *

**Chapter 5 **

Francis awoke to the sound of a smash and loud curse. Pulling the sheets off himself, he wandered downstairs, pushing the blond strands away from his face. "Arthur? I really hope you aren't-" He leaned his head in the doorway, treated to the leave-nothing-to-the-imagination sight of Arthur bent over, picking up shards of china "-What happened?"

"What does it look like?" Arthur snapped, loading the broken pieces onto the saucer, "I dropped a goddamn teacup and now I'm cleaning it up." Straightening, he looked at Francis, his abnormally thick brows contracted, forming an angry and fuzzy 'v.' As he deposited them in the sink, Francis looked the odd clothes the Brit was wearing; a white dress shirt, suspenders drawn tight over his shoulders. At least he was still wearing skinny jeans, which meant some sense remained the world. As much sense as living with his own personal seraph could have.

"Just thought I'd ask." Francis said, picking out his favourite mug and putting on the coffee, ignoring the sneer Arthur gave the bitter drink. "Beggars can't be choosers." He said sweetly, pouring himself a cup and smiling.

He offered another mug to Arthur who turned it down, reaching into the sink, pulling out a fully repaired teacup filled to the brim with Earl Grey. "And I'm not a beggar." The Brit took a long sip, smirking at the Frenchman the entire time.

Taking a small drink of his coffee, Francis leaned against the counter. "Why are you so dressed up?" He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"We're going to the symphony tonight." Arthur answered smoothly, finishing his tea and putting the cup into the sink, "Do you have a suit?"

Francis thinks to his closet. Of the tailored suit he wore to funeral and another, buried deep within his closet, only worn once, now covered in dust and bad memories.

-

"Francis!" Antonio whines, pulling at the collar of his white shirt while desperately tugging at the too-tight knot of his dark tie, "I don't wanna wear this anymore!" His green eyes close and he fidgets restlessly in the front row seat.

Touching the Spaniard's shoulder, Francis gives him a comforting smile. "You'll be fine Tony." He says quietly as the light dim and he takes his hand off the tailored shoulder to clap politely along with the rest of the crowd. He does not want to be here, neither does Antonio but when Gilbert asked them - blushing furiously - if they would come to his concert, they couldn't say no. However, hen they arrived at the concert hall, they almost immediately regretted agreeing.

They are out-of-place here. No matter how fancy they dress, they stand out among the high society Gilbert has worked so hard to escape and break free from. Antonio and Francis do their best to blend in as the Prussian walks out on the stage, his white hair blazing in the spotlight. The crimson eyes gaze at the crowd, first catching sight of Francis and Antonio - his concentration breaks for only a moment with a flicker of his grin - and then to Ludwig, sitting prim and proper at Francis' left, still clapping enthusiastically despite everyone else stopping - Francis quickly covers the small boy's hands with his own, shushing him quietly - and then they find nothing else and Francis realizes with a start that the most important person is missing.

The small Prussian steps up to the microphone. "This is for my father."

Francis does not even see the violin sit under his chin, or the small sigh that escapes Gilbert's lips or the bow before it is already pulling across the strings. It all happens to fast and music is too sweet for him to try and even think. The melody does not hesitate or slow but jumps right in, powerful and sure of itself. Blue eyes can only watch, enraptured, as the fingers move across the strings in precise and delicate moves making the violin sing with pleasure. Even as it fades into a slower beat, Francis still watches, more on the violinist than the music. Gilbert is focused, collected and utterly unlike his usual wild and boisterous nature but Francs can't help but see the similarity between these two selves. Both are determined, and as Francis watched the song begin to fade away and sees the red open and focus on him, he can't help but feel his stomach his a half-hearted lurch. He chalks it up to his mother's horrendous cooking. For now at least.

All his attention is so fixed on Gilbert, that Francis almost forgets to clap until he notices Antonio standing beside him, whooping and cheering, getting offended looks from the surrounding upper class. Francis copies his friend, giving a standing ovation and, on stubbly little legs, Ludwig stands on his seat, clapping proudly. Francis catches him before he falls off his chair and sits down again. There are muttering in the crowd, but Gilbert doesn't care as he beams at his two friends.

As he bows and leave the stage and there is a moment wherein he passes Roderich and a silence stretches between them only Francis and Antonio can see. The brunette sniffs, moving past the Prussian and sits down at his piano and begins to play. Roderich is brilliant, flawless, a genius, a prodigy and a whole host of things Francis can't even fathom and he is left in a stunned silence as the music fades. The crowd is silent and a single set of hands clapping rings out among the silent people.

Arnold's long blond hair glints in the light as his large hands clap calmly and steadily. Everyone but Francis and Antonio stands and applauds, following the German's lead. Roderich smirks and nods his head, glancing at Gilbert with a victorious sneer. After the show, Francis and Antonio spot Gilbert backstage and they hurry towards him, only to stop when they see that Arnold is standing above him, stern and foreboding as ever. Ludwig clings to his brother's hand, keeping his eyes down while Gilbert looks at his father, a pleading expression on his face.

"Roderich played well, did he not?" Arnold says, not really looking at his sons.

Antonio gasps but Francis puts a hand around his mouth, quieting the noise. They watch as Gilbert's fist clenches around his violin and his brother's wrist as he bows his head. "Yes." He says quietly. "He played very well."

Francis never wears the suit again for fear of seeing the defeated look on Gilbert's face.

-

"Of course I have a suit." Francis answered, putting his coffee down and pushing by Arthur, heading up his stairs and sitting on his bed. A moment later, he looked up to see Arthur standing in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. "What do you want?" He asked, avoiding meeting Arthur's eye.

"Just be ready to leave at six." He said. The angel hesitated, as if he had something else to say but Francis doesn't care, closing his eyes and not paying attention, only opening his eyes when he heard the stairs creak and he was sure Arthur wasn't standing in his doorway still. For the next few hours, the house was absolutely silent save for the odd sound from downstairs where Arthur was picking through Francis' music and video collections, snorting at the poor taste. Francis just stared into his closet, not trusting himself to step inside without losing it completely.

Only at 5:55 did Francis decide he should probably get ready. Rather grab the suit than deal with an angry angel. Closing his eyes, he blindly felt around in his closet, touching the soft fabric and pulling it off the rack and throwing it on. Merely draping the tie around his neck, he was never good with ties, he headed to the bathroom; running a brush through his hair and then tying it back with a dark bow.

"Francis!" He jumped as the voice rang through the house, "Hurry up!" Scowling at his reflection, Francis ran down the stairs, pausing when he saw Arthur standing at the bottom. His teeth were closed around a glove, pulling it onto his hand and Francis eyes roamed over the fitted jacket and tailored jeans ending in black Doc Martens. The only source of colour was the blue sweater vest and the dusty rose pinstriped shirt. It was an odd combination, but Francis found he couldn't say anything as the gloves closed around the ends of the tie, beginning to do it up with well-practiced quickness.

Francis flushed slightly. "What are you doing?" He asked, touching Arthur's hands, preventing him from making the knot too tight.

"Doing up your tie." He said, tucking it into Francis jacket, smoothing it out - did Arthur leave his hands on Francis' chest for an extra moment or was that just the Frenchman's imagination? "I'm not going to be seen with you looking like so raggedy-assed." Keys appeared in his hands and Arthur started to walk towards the door. The Frenchman followed after him, touching the tie. Clambering into the car, Arthur drove them downtown, finding that the streets were packed with people, a general flow towards the Rose Hall. Grumbling, Arthur parked a fair distance from the hall and climbed out of the car, muttering something about being granted ultimate powers _except _good parking spaces.

"Hope you're up for a walk." The Briton said, quirking an eyebrow at Francis.

"Always." Francis responded just as coolly. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Arthur pushing by people and seemingly not even affecting them while Francis had a much harder time, offering apologetic smiles, "_Ave Maria_ wasn't even on the advertisements and now all of a sudden it's here."

Arthur shrugged, running a hand through hair. "I had to pull a few strings." He smirked, "Let's just say some people at the Disney Hall are going to be very disappointed."

Before Francis could speak, someone did for him.

"Arthur?"

The angel froze, face visibly paling. Two young men were standing stock-still, both staring at Arthur. Francis looked between them, guessing they were brothers. The taller one had short, sunshine blond hair and there was an air of arrogance around him while the other had much longer and paler hair and seemed much more subdued than his sibling.

"Arthur?" The taller one asked again, exchanging a disbelieving look with his brother, "I-is… is that you?" his younger brother was clinging to the sleeve of his bomber jacket, trembling slightly.

A hand closed around Francis' wrist and yanked him away from the two blonds. Arthur was running full-tilt, dragging a severely confused Frenchman with him. "Hey!" Francis yelled as they fought through the crowds of people, Arthur barely paying attention to where he was going, "Arthur! Who were they?"

The angel only stopped when they were at least three blocks away. Francis was panting for breath while Arthur seemed completely fine though he was shaking his head, pacing back and forth in the small alley. "No, no, no…" He growled, "Shit… this shouldn't have happened! This is all wrong… Goddammit it…"

"Who were they?" Francis reiterated, leaning on his knees, trying to find his breath, "Arthur?"

Arthur punched a side of the building, swearing again. "No!" He shouted, making Francis jump horribly. "They weren't supposed to see me! What…"

The Frenchman seized the angel's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Arthur!" He said, looking into the green eyes, "Please tell me."

"Matthew and Alfred…" He said quietly, eyes wild and unfocused "M-my…"

"We're his brothers." Francis slowly turned. The two blonds were at the mouth of the alley, both panting for breath, paper bags gone, obviously forgotten in the chase, "Isn't that right, _Arthur_?" The smaller one said, stalking towards Arthur, shoving the Frenchman aside.

Arthur held up his hands. "Matthew, wai-" the words were cut off as the yonng blond brought his hand across Arthur's cheek, leaving a stinging blow. Automatically, the angel reached up, brushing the reddening skin, staring blankly. "I c-can explain." he said weakly, half-heartedly.

Indigo eyes were brimming with tears and his fists were clenched at his sides as he shook. "We thought you were dead," he said, bringing his sleeve up and wiping his face. "You lying bastard. A year. A year we spent mourning you, but here you are. We buried you Arthur. What the hell are you doing here?"

Francis could only watch from the side in a stunned silence as the brother confronted the seraph.

Alfred stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's trembling shoulder. "Matt, this can't be him," he whispered, voice gentle, "I know it looks like him, but it can't be."

"Don't be an idiot Al." Matthew snapped, "You know as well as I do that Arthur is standing right there!"

"I'm sorry for any trouble we've caused," Alfred said, beginning to push his brother away, "He's just a little upset." A plastic smile that made even Francis' seem real.

Shoving his older brother away, Matthew cast a contemptuous glare at the angel. "I know it's you Arthur," he said, eyes still bright as he rounded on Alfred, "And I wouldn't call me upset. I wasn't the one who sat in his room for weeks after the funeral. Even now there are times where I don't see you for days Al. You reappear thin, sick and barely alive. I'm upset? I'M UPSET!? You're killing yourself over this sick bastard! Get over yourself Al and get a grip."

Alfred's carefully put together composure broke as Matthew stalked away. With one last look at Arthur, he shook his head, reaching up with a hand and rubbing his face. "Couldn't be…" He muttered before chasing after Matthew.

As soon as they were out of sight, Arthur fell to his knees. Tears fell from his eyes, but he made no move to brush them away. Shuddering, he cradled his head in his hands, starting to sob, "I'm sorry," he faltered, "s-so sorry."

Francis finally moved from his position - pressed against the wall, trying to get as far from the clash as possible. His hands splayed across the shivering back and he crouched beside the sobbing Brit. "Oh Arthur…" He said quietly, unconsciously reminded of Gilbert's bowed head. "I am sorry."

Standing, Arthur shrugged Francis' hand away. "Let's just go." He said, wiping his eyes on his gloves. Reaching out a hand, Francis let it hang in the air as Arthur walked away, only to have it form into a fist, clenched at his side as he followed the angel out of the alley.

It was almost impossible to enjoy the concert. Francis kept shooting looks at Arthur who spent the entire night with his head in his hands, staring at the ground as if no one else in the world existed. This side of the angel confused and frightened Francis slightly. He has only known him for three days - one shouldn't even count as he thought he was a hallucination - but now there was another side revealed. A tender and lost side.

The lead violin was terrible which didn't help with Francis want to watch the symphony. There was no life in the way he sang with the rest of the orchestra, no chemistry between himself and the notes issuing from the bows, nothing that was remarkable like the way Gilbert played and when he was finished, Francis quickly ushered Arthur out while the rest of the audience was giving a standing ovation.

They arrived back home and Francis immediately headed upstairs, pulling off his suit and pulling on pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He sat down, the house eerily quiet and sniffed slightly, remembering how Gilbert would often play at these odd hours, waking the entire house. His room suddenly felt very cold and Francis wet downstairs, intending to ask the Englishman if he wanted to sleep with him.

Arthur was sitting in the living room, his suit in pieces, cast about the assembled furniture. He was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the side, the other bent while his arm draped over his face, obscuring it. "What do you want?" Arthur asked, voice dry and raspy and it doesn't take Francis much guesswork to figure out why it's so broken.

"I was wondering if you wanted to sleep in a bed tonight." Francis said, moving into the room and sitting down at the angel's feet, watching him carefully. A green eye glared at him and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, surprised to still find it tied back. "It was just a suggestion." He said, getting back to his feet, pulling the ribbon out, shaking his hair loose. "_Bonne nuit_ Arthur."

"Did you know that when they throw an angel out of heaven, they take our wings?" Francis paused, looking down at Arthur. The angel sat up, tugging off his shirt, reaching back and touching the top of his spine. "That's… where my scars come from. That, and the crash destroyed my back."

Francis wasn't sure if Arthur was talking to him or the ground but sat back down anyway, figuring he could always offer an ear. The small fingers traced down the mismatched and ugly scars and Francis found himself intruding on the silence. "The crash? You were hit by a car?" He closed his eyes, forcing rancid memories away.

Arthur actually laughed, but it was a pitiful and humourless sound. "You think a car could've beaten me?" He glanced at Francis, trying to give him the comforting smirk but only managing to grimace. "Twenty Third squadron. Flew a Tornado… Beautiful plane, an old German soldier was my mechanic. Stoic and intimidating, but knew planes like he'd been studying them forever. Brilliant man." Arthur hugged himself.

"I was out scouting enemy territory and… I was shot down. Freak accident, one-in-a-million kind of thing." The statement hung in the air. Francis stared at the Englishman, blue eyes wide. The confession was surprising, even slightly alarming.

Francis shuffled closer to the angel, resting a hand on his back, feeling the scars but not daring to move his hand anymore for fear that he was going to scare the man away. "Oh Arthur…" He whispered when his voice decided to start working again.

"Have you ever flown Francis?" Arthur asked, quirking his head, looking at Francis with an curious expression and half a smile, "Not those passenger planes, but really _flown_."

"_Non,_ I can't say I 'ave."

"It's fucking brilliant. Just the horizon and one of the most powerful machines man has made under your control. There's nothing else. You feel… not invincible, but _alone_. It's exhilarating, absolute perfection." The green eyes began to water, Francis moved closer, now wrapping an arm around the trembling shoulders.

"The wings they ripped from me were nothing compared to the ones I lost in the beginning." Arthur covered his face with his hands, tears streaming down his face while the voice remained amazingly even, "I didn't want to die Francis. I wanted to fly forever."

A realization hit Francis, making him want to retch, cry and laugh all at once. He had been selfish. Selfish, cruel and and utterly insensitive. Here, in his arms, was someone who had fought for his life, had revelled in it, had lived it only to have it swiped from under him. Francis, on the other hand, was someone who had considered throwing away his life, had hated it, had ended it only to have the opportunity stopped. He swallowed, the feeling of guilt making his throat thick.

"_Oh mon ange_…" Francis muttered, hugging the angel close as Arthur dissolved into sobs. "You deserved to."

* * *

**Author's Note**

I have 77 Hetalia fanfictions in my writing folder… can everyone pick a number from 1-77 and so I start working through them… please?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Francis grumbled awake as he heard his alarm clock blaring lazily two floors above. Shifting slightly, he found the heaviness on his chest that seemed to have been fading for most of the week had returned full force. As he tried to move again, the weight groaned and Francis opened his eyes.

Sprawled over him, a hand curled around his shirt and blond hair unkempt and wild, was a sleeping Arthur. Unable to do anything but sigh and lean back into the couch, Francis watched as sunlight stretched across the ceiling and the angel lying on him. Flecks of golden hair were caught in its rays, making them glow faintly.

Absently, Francis ran his fingers through the soft strands in an attempt to comb them into submission. The first tightened around his chest and quiet words whispered from between pale lips.

Smirking and untangling his fingers from the blond locks, the mortal carefully slid out from under the Englishman, managing to not wake him up. Draping his suit coat over the scarred shoulders, Francis made his way upstairs, turning off his alarm.

Just as he was about to walk back downstairs, Francis looked into his side room and stopped. The white lily was sitting on the windowsill, staring sullenly out on to the street and seemed to be drooping slightly. Hurrying down to the kitchen, he filled a small mug of water before returning upstairs and pouring the clear liquid into the pot. While the water sank into the greedy soil, Francis sang a quiet lullaby under his breath.

"So you are going to take care of it."

Francis turned around to see Arthur standing in the doorway still looking half-asleep as he rubbed his eyes. "Of course." The Frenchman said, placing a hand on his hip and pushing by the angel and hurrying back downstairs. "I don't feel like making breakfast." He called up to Arthur, "We're going to Liz's."

Placing the mug in the kitchen, he jumped, finding Arthur right behind him. The angel was already wrapped up in a dark grey pea coat; his tartan scarf nestled under his neck. "Let's go then." He smirked, "C'mon, hurry up."

"Snarky little British imbecile." Francis whispered, rolling his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and headed to the front door and pulled on his jacket. Slipping outside, he exhaled at the slightly crisp day.

"Just because you whisper it doesn't mean I can't hear it." Arthur said, leaning against his car and smirking at the Frenchman.

Francis sighed, rolling his eyes. "You delight in annoying me don't you?" He asked, his heart pumping furiously as he stepped down his stairs and heading towards the small restaurant.

Falling in step beside Francis, Arthur yawned. "I do."

"At least you're honest."

"You've got to be in this world."

Francis found that he didn't have a comeback and resorted to scowling darkly. As they approached the café, Arthur held out a hand, catching the Frenchman in the chest. "What?" He asked, looking down the street. Three people were hanging near the windows lining the front of the café, arguing over a map. Francis seemed to tune out as the tallest one started yelling, tearing up the map.

-

The three first happen upon the café when trying to find their new house. It is raining harder than expected, but they do not care. They are out of the countryside in a small blustery little city, cosy yet bustling with the promise of bigger and better adventures. It is perfect and though Francis still yearns for Paris, he knows that Gilbert, Antonio and himself will make the city their own.

Before that, they have to find their house first. Gilbert, finally giving into putting his man card away, (after driving around the same four streets for an hour) parks at a café, ready to ask for directions. Francis grins at him, bumping his shoulder against the Prussian's playfully. Antonio's phone rings with Lovino's telltale ringtone - a recorded song with the Italian singing about tomatoes and hating Francis - and the Spaniard excuses himself, flipping the phone open, walking away while trying to talk over Lovino's frantic and angry words.

Gilbert's hand rests on the door and he hesitates, obviously having a very hard time swallowing his pride.

"Go inside." Francis says, pressing his hand into the small of Gilbert's back, smiling at him. The Prussian hated public affection whereas Francis thrived on it, "I'll protect you from the scary waitress.

Some would call it love at first sight, but those were people of a more romantic inclination than most. Francis would've called it a mutually agreed-upon hatred and loathing of the other. The woman wasn't particularly beautiful. Nor was she particularly ugly. She was pretty, with a sweet smile and soft body to follow. Her green dress cling to her legs as she turned, hearing the bell overhead the door chime.

The Prussian stops dead in the doorway, swallowing, his eyes travelling over her form. "Uh…" He mutters, most likely at a loss for words for the first time in his life. "You… we… and…"

Grinning, though his chest burns with the unfamiliar feeling of jealousy, Francis pushes Gilbert further inside, giving the girl a once-over with his own gaze. "We're lost," He whispers into the Gilbert's ear, "Remember?"

A small light goes on in Gilbert's mind, his bolstering countenance returns full force. Hands on his hips, cocky grin and a downright wicked gleam in his crimson eyes. "Hey!" He calls, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to look round "You! Serving girl! We need directions!"

The woman's soft features suddenly turn dark. "Who the hell do you think you are?!" She says, throwing dishes down onto the table, causing pie to go everywhere, "Walking into my store and calling me a _serving girl_?!"

"Who the hell do you think _I_ am?!" Gilbert counters, though he was already backing towards the door, the waitress' irate expression obviously frightening him, "Gilbert Beilschmidt! And you better remember it!"

The waitress scowls. Quietly, she walks away, disappearing into the kitchen. "That's right!" Gilbert calls after her, laughing, "Run away, like a scared little girl- is that a frying pan?!"

Francis quickly pulls Gilbert out of restaurant before things get bloody. "Good job." He mutters, but still smiling as he drags the Prussian to the car, "Stay here, I'll get directions." Taking the folded sheet of directions from Gilbert' pocket, Francis walked back inside. Managing to sweet-talk the woman and figure out where their house was, the Frenchman gives Elizaveta's hand a small kiss before floating outside, grinning at the desolate looking Prussian. "That's how a real man does it."

The next three days are split between filling their small townhouse with an odd assortment of Francis' chic and nouveau taste, Antonio's old-fashion and homely style while Gilbert's bright and imperial overtone. It was an bizarre mix, but they didn't care, as it seems to mix together in its imperfection.

Because Francis is too lazy to cook, Antonio is too busy trying to find his charging cord because his phone has died and Gilbert isn't allowed within five meters of the stove since an incident during their childhood, the three starve for one day before giving in and heading to _Lizzie's_.

After the first delicious meal, the three return to the café again and again and again and soon they don't even wait to be seated, rather taking their booth. Elizaveta and Gilbert do not get along, and thrive on hating each other. Francis enjoys watching them bicker, wondering if there is a certain fondness between them as months pass by.

"You guys go on ahead." Gilbert says one night as the Trio are once again the last ones in the restaurant, "I've gotta talk to Liz." Antonio nods, but Francis hesitates, still trying to quell the grumbling in his chest.

Watching from the window, Francis sees Gilbert hunched over, rubbing the back of his head and flushing as Elizaveta wipes a few table clean watching the Prussian out of her corner of her eye. Pulling out two tickets, Gilbert offers one to the waitress, looking away. For a moment, the Frenchman thinks the she is going to refuse, but Elizaveta takes the ticket, her own face dusted pink and she gets on her tiptoes and kisses Gilbert's cheek.

As Francis hears Lovino's ringtone, shrill and alarming in the night, he suddenly feels very alone.

-

"Are you listening to me Francis?" Arthur glared at the Frenchman, "Get in there and asked Elizaveta on a date, okay?"

Francis ran a hand through his hair, watching the waitress' slightly burred form through the window. "I don't know if I want to-"

A white thing suddenly obstructed his vision and he read a few lines of elegant cursive. "The list!" Arthur cried, waving it, "Have you forgotten the list?! I am not going anywhere until you finish this goddamn thing!" The angel seized Francis' arm and dragged him inside. "Elizaveta!" He said, pushing the mortal towards her, "Francis has something he would like to ask you!"

"Yes?" The waitress asked, wiping her hands on her apron before walking over to the pair, "What is it?"

Shooting Arthur a death-glare, Francis smiled weakly at Elizaveta, glad that the restaurant was relatively empty. "I was wondering…" He swallowed, where was that charm he had worked so hard on during highschool? "If maybe…"

"Seriously?" Time seemed to freeze and for a moment Francis thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him until he noticed that Elizaveta had actually stopped moving. He looked around, the busy street outside caught in stillness. "You're really fucking this one up." Arthur said, striding towards him, leaning on a booth and raising a bushy eyebrow while stealing a piece of bacon off a customer's plate.

"I'd like to see you do a better job." Francis snapped.

"Don't make me take over your body, 'cause I fucking will." Arthur said, poking Francis in the chest, "Use some of that French charm you people are supposed to be born with for Christ's sake."

Slapping Arthur's finger away, Francis glared at him. "Like you could do a better job. Your charm would make even a _barbare _laugh!"

"At least I would be able to ask Elizaveta out without acting like a goddamn schoolgirl!"

"Fine! I'll show you how a _real_ man asks a woman out." Francis said. The angel grinned and time suddenly resumed. Without hesitating, Francis asked, "Would you like to go for coffee sometime?"

The waitress shook her head, looking a little out-of-it. "Coffee?" She asked, gesturing towards the pot simmering on her counter a few meters away, "Is that all you want?"

"No, I just… would you like to go out on a date sometime?"

"Uh," Elizaveta's face frowned for a moment before she gave him a small smile. "Sure! I'd love to Francis. Meet me at the end of my shift, okay?"

Nodding and resisting the urge to cheer, Francis whirled around, trying to find Arthur so he could rub his victory in the Englishman's face. To his surprise, the angel was nowhere to be seen. Francis looked all over the restaurant and even back at his home but found the Brit to have completely disappeared.

In an attempt to ignore the small feeling of dread at Arthur's absence, Francis spent the remaining time before his date (a date! For the first time in months Francis was going a date! And not a paid one to boot) shopping for food for his dinner with Elizaveta. Returning home, he tidied up a bit, preparing a few vegetables and tripping his scruff a bit before realizing that he was already late. Hurrying out the front door, he ran down the road, stopping in front of Elizaveta and panting for breath. "Desolé…" He said, straightening and offering his arm.

Giggling, the Hungarian wrapped her arm through his. "It's no problem, I just finished closing up anyway." She glanced around inquiringly, "Where's your friend? You guys have been together almost every time I've seen you."

"He's not my friend." Francis said, pouting slightly, before sighing, "I mean… Arthur is… I don't know what he is to me yet."

The green eyes glinted for a second. "Sounds risqué," She said, winking at the Frenchman, "You aren't keeping secrets from me, are you Francis?"

"Not from you Elizaveta!" Francis said, faking a taken-aback look, "I just don't know what to think of Arthur, that's all."

"You're saying you don't like him." The Hungarian said wisely, clinging close to Francis' arm and shivering, "That's what people say when they don't like people."

Shaking his head, Francis led Elizaveta across the street, climbing the stairs to his home. "I don't mean it like that." He said, opening the door and gesturing her inside, "He's very sweet in his own backwards way."

Elizaveta stepped inside, pulling off her jacket and handing it to Francis, brushing off her dress before peering around the small entranceway - her eyes staying for a second on the picture of Gilbert playing his violin. "Well, I like him." She said, turning to Francis and smiling as he hung up her coat, "And I'm glad you're… making friends again."

There was a moment of silence as Elizaveta kept her gaze down and Francis nodded slightly. "Me too," He gave the waitress a weak smile, "Come into the kitchen, I'm making Chicken Francese."

It felt nice to have someone in his home again. Elizaveta was just as charming as she was self-assured and was nothing short of the perfect guest as she helped Francis cook, uncorked the wine and didn't hesitate to return Francis' cheers of souls that have passed on with her own solemn words. All the while, Francis couldn't help but let his mind wander and wonder where his angel was.

The night ended with the Hungarian cutting up a few strawberries, feeding them to Francis while giggling slightly as he spoke silly and over-the-top French balderdash at her. Offering to walk her home, Francis hummed pleasantly as Elizaveta hung close to his arm, both quiet, letting the warm night air fill the silence.

Already making it into the downtown, Elizaveta stopped out a large apartment building, standing outside the glass doors, smiling at the old porter who winks, waiting to open the door when he sees Francis. "Umm…" She played with a lock of her hair nervously, "Francis, I had a nice night and everything, but-" Her words stopped as the Frenchman kissed her cheek.

"Don't worry, I get it." Francis said kindly, smiling softly at her, squeezing her hand fondly, "Breakfast at eight?"

Elizaveta laughed. "Always." She gave Francis' hand an equally tender squeeze before turning on her heel and hurrying inside to her building.

The porter let the door close, frowning at Francis. "You shouldna let her go ya'know." He said, shaggy moustache fluttering slightly.

"She's not the one for me." Francis said, winking at the old man, "I had to let her go. So that we could both move on." Walking away, enjoying the slightly confused look on the man's face, Francis took a few alleys, finding himself slightly lost within the city's downtown.

Frowning, he stopped, looking around and trying to fins familiar landmarks, his eyes fell upon a small, black convertible parked a block away. A figure was leaning against it, smoke curling from the cigarette lit at its side. Hurrying over, Arthur's thin form quickly came into view, head titled up, staring at an apartment complex.

"See how the light on the sixth floor is flickering?" The Brit asked without even looking as the Frenchman as he took a place beside Arthur on the car.

"Yes."

"It's Tuesday." A long drag of the smoke, "Both Matthew and Alfred don't have work tomorrow, so they stay up for hours playing video games and watching bad movies. I always hated that because I always had work on Wednesday, so I never got any sleep."

Francis glanced at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, watching the Englishman snuggling lower into his scarf. "Can't you go and see them?" He asked, leaning against the Brit, offering his warmth.

Arthur didn't move away, obviously forgetting the spat they had in the morning. "No. I was breaking the rules even just being seen by chance. Imagine seeing your dead brother pop up at your door three months after you buried him and scattered his ashes in the Channel, wouldn't exactly be the most sensible of situations."

"And I thought you weren't one for rules."

"I'm not. But I'm doing it for them." Arthur said, flicking the cigarette away.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So ya, Gilbo/Liz is my het!OTP.

(unbeta'd/unedited. please point out errors if you see them and edited copy will be up later)


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was a blustery day. The kind that made you want to wear a scarf just to see it dance in the wind. Which was why Francis was currently trying to untangle himself from tartan as Arthur's muffler attacked him for the fourth time that morning. The Brit wasn't helping, rather he laughed, using it as a blatant excuse to stay close to the Frenchman for warmth.

After stopping by Lizze's and grabbing a coffee and tea, Arthur had dragged Francis to the nearby park, intending to see some of the fall colours. It was odd to see the angel in such a chipper mood and Francis wasn't to keen on asking him why so they walked in a mutual silence, not quite enjoying each other's company, but not disliking either. And the Frenchman was positive that Arthur's continued scarf problems were not entirely accidental.

Plopping down onto a bench, Arthur sipped his tea as Francis took a seat beside him, shivering slightly. "_Merde_," the Frenchman muttered against the lid of his coffee before taking a long drink trying to stay warm, "Why have you dragged me out here? We should be inside and staying warm."

"Falling in love." Arthur said simply, "I mean, girls love this kind of shit. Meeting them in a park is the most goddamn romantic thing I can think of."

"Women don't go out when it's below freezing Arthur."

Arthur glared and looked away angrily for a moment before turning back slowly and grinning. "Oh don't they?" He snapped his fingers and from behind a tree appeared two very beautiful women. One had very short blond hair but Francis really wasn't paying attention to that but rather her large family jewels that she was trying to hide behind folded arms. The young lady beside her had tanned skin, dark shiny hair and a very feisty walk. "What do you call those?" Arthur asked, smirking.

As Francis watched, his throat feeling a little dry, the girls seems to shimmer slightly before wandering off, looking very confused. "Don't do that! _Ça c'est pas drôle_!" The Frenchman snapped, folding his arms over his chest and pursing his lips as he flushed, "You are a tease."

"What?" Arthur laughing, finishing his tea and tossing it to a nearby bin, "You said girls don't come here and I made some appear! You need to fall in love Francis, I want to go to heaven already!"

Getting to his feet and pacing away from the angel, Francis scowled at the ground. "It's not easy you know," He said quietly, "It's not like I can just force myself to fall in love with someone. _Amour _is more complicated than that."

In an instant, Arthur was at his side; elegant black boots clicking on the sidewalk. "I don't know," He said, bringing his hands to his mouth, blowing into them and rubbing them together, "You seem like a pretty good guy, I bet we'll find you a girl in no time. That waitress was into you." He added, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from the cold.

Francis shook his head. "Elizaveta?" He smiled, the woman had been completely fine this morning with him not awkward in the least, which he was beyond thankful for, "No, our date was nice, but we both like being friends better than a couple. That, and I've had my eye on someone else for some time now." Carefully, Francis reached back, grabbing his hair and pulling it back into a small ponytail.

"Well this makes things easier." Arthur said, stretching slightly, clasping his hands behind his back and thrusting his chest out, "We should go meet this girl." A series of cracks followed by a satisfied sigh.

Cringing slightly, Francis carefully placed his hand in his pockets, hunching his back against a small, but bitter wind. "I haven't known them for a long time."

"Oh, have I met them yet?"

"You know him pretty well." Francis said, stopping.

Arthur's face turned hard and he turned back to Francis slowly. He suddenly had gloves on his hands and was pulling them down, fingers flexing against the leather, forming a fist. "Don't tell me its Matthew," He said darkly, "Or I will kill you."

The threat in the angel's voice was impossible to ignore. Francis swallowed slightly, holding up a placating hand. "Wouldn't killing me go against the rules?" He asked weakly, knowing full well that wouldn't stop him from driving a stake through the Frenchman's heart.

"It would." Arthur said, nodding as he examined the leather of his glove, "But I wouldn't care. You are not touching Matthew. Or Alfred for that matter." The green eyes were burning.

Francis sighed, grabbing Arthur's fist, pushing it down. "It's not them." He said.

"Then who?" Arthur asked, frowning in confusion.

Perhaps not the smartest thing Francis has ever done but he couldn't help but feel enthralled in the way Arthur's narrowed eyes widen and the way his fists relax when Francis pressed his lips to the Englishman's.

-

"I'm moving to Italy with Lovino."

When Antonio says this, Francis looked up from his now-cold cup of coffee. The green eyes are looking at the ground and browns curls are tugged in every which direction by a strong wind. On Francis' other side, Gilbert leans forward slightly, eyes wide with amazement and shock.

"We want to open a tomato farm together," Antonio continues, his fingers clasped tightly in his lap as he finally looks at his two friends. There is a deep sadness in his voice, but Francis can't help but hear the tones of hopefulness and change there as well, "I've finally made enough money and the Vargas aren't poor… I'm leaving next week."

It wasn't surprising. Francis has seen the tickets, heard the phone calls and seen the bags tucked away, slowly swelling as Antonio's closet emptied. That didn't make it hurt any less but Francis still found himself smiling. _This was good_ he tried to tell himself. Antonio needed this and Francis would only be happy for him.

"I guess it's just you and me then, Gilbert." The Frenchman finally says after a long pause, turning to the Prussian and giving him a weak smile. The smile only falters more when he sees the red eyes averted.

"Actually, I've just been accepted in the Berlin Philharmonic." Francis' eyes go wide as Gilbert looks at him, apology written in every line of his pale face, "I'm going back to Germany with Roderich next week."

Francis can't help but laugh nervously, his voice trembling with emotion (hurt, desolation and the bite of envy) as he asks, "But what about Ludwig? And Elizaveta?"

Gilbert runs a hand through his hair, and the Frenchman doesn't miss the look he shares with Antonio. They are having second thoughts about tell him. "He'll be fine in England. He says he loves it there."

"And Liz?" Francis asks, her name coming out harder and rougher than he intends. He glares at the Prussian, questions on his tongue but left unsaid and he knows that Gilbert's answers also go unuttered.

"I… haven't told her yet…" _I'm sorry Francis, but we can't be together, I don't love you the way you love me._

"And you plan to?" _This is all happening too fast. I hate you Gilbert._

_And you have every right to._ "I actually wanted to ask her to come with me." The Prussian says, smiling slightly, a touch of his old charm and cockiness coming back to the toothy grin. Francis holds back a scoff. "Roderich's got an apartment that has enough room for all of us. And between the two of us both working for the orchestra we should make a steady living, maybe even open another restaurant for Liz…"

Francis is the first to talk after the awkward silence that follows. He does not know why it is he that speaks first, that breaks the hurt and torn feelings inside of him. Beside him, Antonio places a hand on his arm and Gilbert copies the motion. Their warmth goes unnoticed by the Frenchman as he rubs his eyes on the back of his hands. "I guess… this is our last outing then."

The feelings of betrayal growing in his stomach were eating him alive and Francis wants nothing more than to grab their hands and stay in the park forever, but he knows better than that. His better half, his less selfish half wants, knows and needs to let them go.

"Yeah, I guess so." Gilbert says, his fists clenching around the fabric of Francis' coat as he looks away, muttering a curse under his breath.

Getting to his feet, Francis shakes the comforting touches away as he forces a smile onto his face. "Are you guys free tomorrow?" Turning, he looks down at them, trying to hold himself together, to not breakdown, to not be selfish. He can see they both want to say yes and he knows they are probably busy, packing up their lives into little boxes and leave his side.

But they say no anyway.

"Good." Francis feels his smile fall slightly and he can't help but wonder when they grew up from the small children hiding in a bush, trying to catch a beast of legend into adults and leaving him behind as they moved on in the world. "I'll… see you tomorrow then."

"Bye Francis." Antonio says, also getting to his feet.

"Stay sharp Frenchy." Gilbert holds out his hand, and then Antonio places his on top. They both look at Francis. The Frenchman feels his heart squeeze painfully as he places his hand on top last.

This was not the end Francis tries to remind himself as the Prussian and Spaniard throw their arms around him, pulling him into a close hug.

It wasn't like he wasn't going to see them again.

-

Arthur pulled back quickly, pushing the mortal away quickly. His cheeks were an even brighter pink. "Francis. I-I, we can't do this." He said quickly, "Fuck, seriously, what is wrong with you?!"

"Why not?" Francis said, following Arthur, ignoring the way the Englishman backed away from him, "I'm in love with you Arthur!"

Arthur was sure to keep his distance, shaking his head violently. "No you don't. You can't."

Lunging slightly, Francis wrapped his arms around the Englishman's shoulders. "Arthur, you saved my life and made me realize how much I was going to throw away." He closed his eyes, burying his face into the blond hair.

"That's not love! That's just gratitude!" Arthur fists tightened around Francis' jacket, trying to push him away, "Look at me Francis. You can't fall in love with me, I'm just going to disappear! Do you know what that would be like? Falling in love and then that person just disappears? I can't do that to you Francis!"

Francis pulled back slightly, looking into Arthur's pleading eyes. "Why not!?" He demanded, keeping his hold of the Englishman, refusing to let him go.

"Because I love you, you bastard!"

Arthur stared at the ground, hands falling from the dark jacket to cover his face. Jaw unhinging slightly, the Frenchman's eyebrows frowned slightly. "_Quoi_?" He finally managed, bending down slightly to try and see the angel's eyes.

"They made me watch you before I came down." Arthur said, talking to his feet, voice trembling and fast, "I saw how sad you were, how broken you were inside, and yet you put on this smiling face for the world to see. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen. And then you go and try to kill yourself. You just… It was so stupid! You were throwing so much away and it was like everything Antonio and Gilbert had done for you didn't matter in the slightest. I had to stop you."

The green eyes locked with Francis' and the Frenchman's hand tightened on Arthur's shoulder. "You… gave up your wings for me, didn't you?" He asked quietly. It was all clear now, why Arthur was so keen on helping him. It wasn't just about Francis, it was about everyone Francis was going to leave behind.

Arthur leaned his forehead against Francis' chest, laughing feebly. "I did. I wanted to make you see everything you were willing to throw away. It was so stupid…" Again, the gloved hands clutched at the heavy coat as the angel shuddered slightly.

"Arthur…"

"Francis, look," Arthur's voice caught slightly as Francis hugged him closer, "I don't believe in love in first sight. I never have and never will. But… I know that I feel something for you, love or just caring. And if you love me for some inexplicable reason, then…" Looking down, Francis saw Arthur fingers, now gloveless, playing with the frayed edges of the tartan scarf. "I guess I can pretend to feel the same way."

Francis' shoulder slumped slightly. "I don't want you to pretend." he said quietly, pulling away from Arthur slightly. For the first time in five minutes, they weren't touching.

Fingers weaving into the strands of cloth, Arthur kept his head down. "And I don't want to stay here forever." He confessed.

"I love you Arthur."

"I don't know how I feel about you Francis."

The Frenchman growled in frustration, burring his hands into fists. "You already said that you love me!" He said, shaking his head at the Englishman. Was he always this fickle?

Arthur was quiet as he tried to untangle his fingers from his scarf, cursing quietly. "I-I wasn't thinking straight, I was just blurting out things."

"But that doesn't make it untrue _cher._" Francis reached forward, taking Arthur's pink fingers and carefully pulling the tartan away, "Just because you say something quickly doesn't make it wrong." Still holding the Englishman's hands in his, Francis smiled at him.

"I don't want to love you Francis." Arthur said as he gazed up at Francis, shivering and blinking quickly, "I'll just hurt us both."

"Can't we at least try?" He squeezed the small hands, watching green eyes relax as the angel nodded slowly. Francis grinned, kissing the Englishman against, curling his fingers into the scarf.

Somewhere deep inside his mind Francis knew that it was a bad idea, he knew that it could only end badly and he knew it would probably end with his heart being wrenched in two.

Francis couldn't bring himself to care as Arthur came closer, green eyes closed as his cold nose brushed his.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Mmm~ FrUK 3 and Bad Touch Trio angst... I love writing them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Francis sighs as he walks into the small home, shivering and shaking his head free of the water clinging to the stringy strands. He is exhausted, body weighed down with tiredness of trying to find a job and mind heavy from the emotional stress brought on being depended on by the other two - Antonio still being jobless, Gilbert only being able to busk.

Slumping up the stairs after ghosting into the kitchen for a quick glass of wine, the Frenchman brought a hand up to his chin, feeling the scruff there, longer than could be considered elegantly careless. He would have to get up early to use the bathroom before his two roommates got there first, hogging it for themselves and using up all the hot water.

Now feeling even more tired, knowing that he was barely going to get any sleep, Francis opens the door to his room. Inside, Gilbert and Antonio are asleep on his large bed, not even under the covers, both soaking wet and snoring loudly. The Frenchman scowls at the pair, remembering how they still hadn't bought their own beds despite living in the house for a whole month.

He considers rousing them for a moment, demanding them to go downstairs and sleep on the couch like the lazy bums they are but as he watches Antonio sniffles lightly, curling closer to Gilbert who gives a grunting snore, splayed over the bed taking up at least half the mattress.

The Frenchman smiles to himself - only when they sleep do Antonio and Gilbert suddenly look like they are young again - and wanders over to the bed. He pulls off their muddy shoes, humming to himself as he brushes a soaking curl away from the Spaniard's face, delighting in the way the eye twitched slightly and he nuzzled closer to the albino.

He knows that he shouldn't be so easily swayed, but Francis can do nothing but smile at his two best friends as he pulls the covers over them. As soon as he takes a step away, a pale hand reaches out, closing around his wrist. "C'mere…" Gilbert mutters quietly, not opening his eyes, "We were waiting for y-y-you…" The last word is captured in a yawn and the pale hand falls from his arm, flopping back onto the bed.

Francis sighs. He knows that Antonio and Gilbert are going to be sick -he _knows_- and he knows that it is _he_ that will have to care for them but somehow he can't bring himself to mind. He lies down on the bed, closing his eyes. Two bodies shuffle around him, adapting to the newest addition. Antonio's arm comes to rest across his chest as the Spaniard grins in his sleep. The Prussian's arm rests somewhere against his abdomen while the pale face buries itself in the sodden blond hair, sighing out heavily.

He feels like a child again, on one of their many outings during the warm summers when one couldn't survive living inside. Instead of mapping the sky with his eyes, instead Francis' blue eyes stare at the seat of knots in the wooden ceiling. Instead of the warm and heavy smell of a makeshift campfire, Francis breathes in the smell of his detergent heavy in his sheets, the cologne Gilbert insists on wearing and the spice of Antonio's aftershave. Instead of the quiet whisper of the forest or the dying crackle of the fire or the gentle break of a twig as the white beast they've hunted their lives watches over them, Francis only hears the drunken cries from the college house across the street, the rumble of the odd car passing underneath his window and the hum of the numbers glowing on his clock.

As he lies there, the moonlight turning to a golden, rose tinted light, Francis can't help but smile to himself. This is where he belongs and he wouldn't have it any other way.

-

Francis stared at him from his position on the bed. The angel had already tugged his shirt off, revealing his thin, toned body. He seemed to glow slightly, though that could be entirely due to the streetlight blazing behind him. Some would say that it is too much too fast, but Francis was never one waiting. Life had already given him a second chance; he was not about to waste it.

Advancing on the bed, Arthur's hands nervously played together, fingers running over the steeples of his knuckles. "We do this and I never see you again." Crawling on the bed, following Francis as he slid further up the bed, Arthur started down at the Frenchman. His arms sat on either side of Francis' torso as he licked his lips -a bad habit.

Francis reached up with a hand, gently tracing Arthur's cheek. The angel leaned into it, brushing his lips over the palm as it led him closer to Francis. "I realize that," He murmured, "But I can't stand to see you look so sad."

Arthur hovered above him, their lips a breath away. "So this is it?"

"I guess."

Closing the distance, Arthur leaned forward, catching Francis' mouth with his. Hands slid around Francis' neck, pulling him into a strong kiss, Arthur's tongue already sliding into his mouth. Moaning quietly, Francis allowed the angel to dominate the kiss, his fingers tracing along the thin side before creeping onto his back.

The scars the mortal had admired since he had first seen them were rough under his wandering touch. Arthur breathed in sharply, breaking away as the fingers ghosted over his skin. He reached back with one of his hands and grabbed the Frenchman's wrist, lifting it to his mouth, placing deft kisses along the elegant fingers. As the thumb was decorated, he placed the hand back on his hip, moving down to once again capture Francis' lips.

Instead of merely sitting there, Francis' hand slipped into the tight pockets of Arthur's pants, pulling Arthur flush against him, heartbeats mixing: erratic and wild. One hand cupping, the other wrestled itself into the short hair, clutching tightly and forced more of their skin together.

Francis moaned against the lips as they left, instead kissing the trench of his neck. "You know I'm doing this so I can go back," a voice muttered, hot against his skin. He felt the teeth bite and the lips pull, leaving a burning red mark.

"D-do not say su-such things." The mortal's voice was ragged as the hands nestle against his hips, travelling over his trembling and taunt stomach. The mouth parted from his neck, latching instead on his collarbone, softer, unsure of itself. "Arthur?"

Emerald eyes, hazy, lost and guilty looked at Francis. "H-How can't you hate me?" While one hand reached down fumbling open the Frenchman's pants, pushing them down past his hips. Fingers caressed, teased, touched, felt, cared and nudged as the other hand reached up, touching the Frenchman's face, thumb rubbing the tender spot behind his jaw.

Arching up into the hand, whimpering slightly, Francis attempted a smile, weak and forgiving. "I cannot h-hate you of all people," their cheeks brush, Francis' rough against Arthur's smooth as the angel worked and Francis already is panting, hot and yearning in the cool hand.

The Frenchman's boxers are soon cast to the ground, Arthur's own not far behind as he positioned himself above Francis. Fingers twist inside of him and the angel's breath was in his ear mumbling something like _is that alright?_ but hands tangled the chopped blond hair and a low moan ghosted from the swollen lips. "F-fine."

Moments passed where heartbeats grew fast, Francis' breath grew more ragged and shallow and Arthur claimed more of the pale skin as his own. Neither could wait much longer and as Arthur drew back, kissing Francis again, he pressed in, breath hitching against their mouths.

The movements are short, shuddering as Arthur moved against him. Francis' fingers dug into the scars, dragging in the desert of broken skin. Each thrust brought them closer; sinking deeper as Francis voice mumbled the angel's name over and over, losing meaning in the gasps rolling from his lips.

"A fool." Arthur breathed against his mouth, eyes hooded, far away and near enough to drive into Francis', "You fell in love with a selfish fool." The words are steady as the body shuddered, losing control as they crash together. Trembling fingers intertwined, gripping onto each other for comfort, for release.

A shivering moan, muscles clench (pressing into the bed, making it whine) and mouths press together for one last time before bodies come apart. Blue eyes finally open and stared up the angel who panted down at him weakly. Collapsing, face burying into the crook of the Frenchman's neck as if made to fit there, Arthur let his breath out, long and slow.

Turning to the side, Francis curled the Brit to him, wrapping a single arm around him, letting his heart find itself again. There is one last kiss, lazy and loving. _A fool_. But the reprimand is quiet and half-hearted, finding itself to be praise. Arthur is asleep long before the Frenchman - every inch of him still burns, from pain and the pleasure still weakly bolting through his body.

Francis couldn't sleep. Or he really didn't want to, for fear that as soon as he closed his eyes, the man curled against him would disappear. Moonlight replacing the shuttering streetlight, Francis opened his eyes and looking down to savour the quiet and warm feeling of someone against him.

The thin side rose and fell in time with the slow and quiet breathing, while shaggy dun gold lay about his head in a wild splay. Absently, Francis tucked the hair behind Arthur's ear. His fingers continued to move, sliding down the neck, feeling for a pulse he knew wasn't there, along the shoulders where ugly scars marred skin and down the arm, stopping only to weave their fingers.

Snuffling in his sleep, Arthur shivered slightly, his hand gripping Francis' as he shifted closer. The Frenchman sighed, the tiny body cool against his flushed skin. His eyelids were beginning to droop and he could already feel his mind drifting away. "I love you Arthur." He said, placing a delicate kiss on the angel's neck, "So much."

_I love you too._

Francis awoke the next morning to an empty bed.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Uh... not much to say. Probably one of the harder chapters to write... Since I started this story, this is the one scene I've been dreading, but at the same time, there is an enormous amount of relief I feel.


	9. Chapter 9

**Epilogue**

Matthew sighed, checking his watch for what felt like the dozenth time in the last five minutes alone. His mind was restless turning the mysterious order to meet at the diner called _Lizzie's_ at noon over and. The accent had been French, worn and guilt, which had only added to his confusion. Just as he had thought it to be a con and was considering hanging up - which he had only done once before in his life - but stopped as the tired voice had said, "I want to talk to you about Arthur."

Twenty minutes later and at least a full hour before the agreed meeting time, Matthew was standing outside the diner, a puzzled and grudging Alfred in tow. He hadn't taken a breath to explain to his twin what was going on until they were seated in a booth, drinking coffee. Alfred's eyes went wide as Matthew informed him about the mysterious phone call.

If the Canadian's mind was restless, his brother was showing the signs. Alfred couldn't sit still, constantly shifting his jacket on and off, lifting his coffee to his lips, realizing it was still empty and the entire time his finger tapped against the table in a constant rhythm. Matthew didn't have the heart to tell him that the tapping was driving him crazy, instead letting his eyes travel over the pretty form of the waitress who was talking to some of her customers, smiling and laughing.

"She will take time to warm up to you Mathieu."

Turning around Matthew opened his mouth to say that he was _no_ staring when the words seemed to drop from his mind. "You…" he breathed, indigo eyes going wide. A tall blond man was hovering near their booth, tucking his hair behind his ear nervously. Under his arm he held a small potted lily.

"You!" Alfred was on his feet, an accusing fingers pointed at the tall blond, "I know you! You were the one with Arthur!"

Taking a careful look at the man, Matthew realized that he was right. Does that mean that night wasn't just some nightmare?

The Frenchman held up a hand. "_Oui._ It was me." He shifted the flower awkwardly, "Could I sit down please? I will not take much of your time."

Alfred exchanged a look with Matthew. He clearly didn't trust the man, but the Canadian was too curious and nodded, shifting deeper into his booth, indicating the Frenchman to sit down. "Ah, _merci_." The tall blond sat down, placing the lily on the table, "So I suppose you have questions?"

Alfred spoke before he could even gather his thoughts. "Where is Arthur?" His voice was quiet, disguising anger behind a thin sliver of hope. Matthew's heart winced at his brother's words. Oh course he still hoped that Arthur was alive. That's why Matthew loathed seeing Arthur that night, apparition or not. Giving Alfred false hope.

Before the Frenchman could answer, the waitress had approached the table, fresh pot of coffee in one had, a clean mug in the other. "Hey Francis," she said kindly, placing the cup down, pouring coffee without hesitation, "These two your new friends? What about Arthur?" She said with a shadow of a wink.

"We're his brothers." Matthew said quickly, holding out his mug, watching her as she leaned forward, brown hair spilling over her shoulder.

"Oh!" She said, still smiling, looking to Alfred who gave a curt nod, pushing his mug towards her, "Tell him I say hello. Skirt swishing as she turned, the woman walked away away her free hand resting on Francis' shoulder for a moment.

Sipping his coffee, trying to hide his flushed face, Matthew tried to guage his brother's expression but the light blue eyes were fixed on Francis, still waiting for an answer.

Francis' fingers curled themselves around the mug but he didn't lift it to his mouth. "Arthur is dead."

"No he isn't!" Alfred said, eyes over bright and amd arms tucked tight against his chest, "We saw him, you saw him, hell even that waitress saw him!"

Swallowing, Francis gently ran a hand through his wavy hair. "He was sent from heaven for me…"

Matthew found himself snorting disbelievingly. "You're telling me Arthur was an angel? That's insane."

To his surprise, the Frenchman laughed. "You are very right," he said, nodding with a far off smile on his lips, "Arthur was not a good angel. But he did help me and I am eternally thankful for that." He stood up abruptly, abandoning his coffee, "It oes not matter if you believe me or not, I have told you the truth."

Matthew was sceptical. Just as he opened his mouth to argue, Alfred spoke across him. "Then he's moved on?" Francis hesitated, then nodded, "Did - did he say anything about us?"

"He said he was sorry."

The hard blue eyes softened and Alfred sniffed lightly, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. "Thank you…" Under the table, Matthew grabbed his brother's hand, squeezing it.

Francis gave a small smile, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen, "If you ever need anything," he scribbled his number down on a napkin, "And I mean anything, please call me. It's the least I can do."

Watching his twin take the napkin, carefully folding it and then proceed to shove it into the pocket of his bomber jacket, Matthew turned to Francis. "Wait," He said as the Frenchman took a step away, "Your lily."

"Take it," Francis said, only turning his head slightly to see Matthew and Alfred, "I am incompetent with flowers and if you are anything like your brother, you will take good care of it." Raising a hand in farewell, Francis hurried out of the café without looking back.

Flipping his collar up against the cold, Francis stepped out on the street, blending in with the crowd. His arm felt light without the lily, perhaps for the better. This is what Arthur was talking about, this isolation, this seclusion. Exhilarating, but he understood why the Brit had not voiced the true reason why isolation was so beautiful. Someone was always waiting for you. Elizaveta had been waiting for him. Alfred and Matthew were still waiting for Arthur even after he had left. And even when Francis was finally going to take his final step, he knew that he would be welcomed with warm smiles and gracious embraces. Until then, he would live life to it's fullest, in payment to Arthur.

He stopped, something catching his eye. Stepping out of the throng, Francis took a closer look at the large park that sprawled away from him. Two children were chasing each other, laughing and shouting as they roughhoused without a care in the world. As Francis leaned against the archway leading into the grassy field, he watched the children, his heart swelling with a bittersweet feeling. Their skins contrast like the moon against the night skin. The vibrant green eyes are wide with a constant look of innocent rapture while the crimson gaze is narrowed with naïve superiority.

They finally notice that Francis is watching them and stop their fooling around. The tanned one waved first and the pale one doesn't hesitate to follow suit quickly, waving his hand with twice the enthusiasm. They continued to try and out do each other and eventually fall over each other, laughing and gasping for breath. As Francis took a step towards them, a hand on his shoulder stops him.

Forest green met watery blue and lips pull into a smirk as wandering fingers casually dishevel the short sandy blond hair. There are no words and Francis was all at once too overjoyed and hurt to do anything but gape and touch the cold hand. The angel began to walk towards the children and the mortal clings to his hand, begging for him to stay.

_You have to fly for me Francis._

The twined fingers untangle themselves and when Francis tried to blink his tears away, the seraph was already standing with the two children, crouching and ruffling their hair, only to be tackled to the ground by both of them. Laughter reaching Francis' ears and he watches Arthur flail uselessly, half-heartedly fighting off the two children. Crying silently, smiling and hugging himself, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them the children are gone and Arthur gave him one last genuine smile, flipping aviators over emerald eyes and disappears.

_end_


End file.
